This wasn't supposed to happen. It wasn't supposed to go like this. Dumbledore was here; he should have been able to say the right words to get Harry off. He always had the right words… except for this time, it seemed. 

“Take him away.” Fudge sounded far too pleased at the guilty verdict, and the stout woman beside him bounced up and down, causing her pink bow to jiggle in her hair.

It was with a sort of daze that Harry allowed himself to be pulled to his feet by the Ministry workers who had been hovering near his chair like eager vultures. The Headmaster looked over at them with consternation, still not meeting his eyes, and Harry wondered caustically whether the man had planned for this outcome… but of course he had. When was Dumbledore not playing some complicated game in which Harry was just a pawn? 

They had just exited the courtroom when a boom resounded through the corridor. Harry jumped, and the guards tugged anxiously at his arms, as if afraid he was going to make a run for it. 

The next few minutes were a  blur of movement and sound. He was jostled around several times and seemed to change hands on at least three separate occasions. At one point, he became aware that an object had been shoved into his hands, which had been bound behind his back by the wrists, and a voice whispered harshly into his ear, “Pine sap.”

“Pine sap??” Harry wondered aloud, utterly bemused at what was going on. He felt an impossible tugging at his naval, and his last thought before he was jerked out of the courtroom was was Mrs Weasley will kill me if I die.  

As Harry traveled through space via portkey, he felt a rising panic. The last time he touched a portkey… well, Harry could barely think of it. 

Kill the spare.

Upon landing, Harry's first instinct was to run. He’d been unable to keep on his feet, off balance as he was with bound hands, but he immediately leapt to a crouch. Looking around, however, Harry realized that no one was to be seen for miles. 

He was standing in the middle of an open expanse of wilderness. Trees and rock outcroppings liberally dotted the landscape, and the land seemed to rise and fall at random. A few feet from him, a sparrow was twittering in a scraggy bush.

He stood stock still for a moment, unable to comprehend what had just happened. After a moment, his instincts kicked in and he cast about for a sharp rock or something to cut the binds on his wrist. He found one and fumbled it in his fingers, trying to get a good grip, before frantically sawing at the ropes.

He worried that they would prove unbreakable, as he remembered how one of the guards had flicked his wand to bind him in the first place, but they soon snapped under his panicked efforts.

He winced upon seeing the bloodied, chapped skin around his wrists. He hadn’t been too careful in his haste. They stung, but he was still panting slightly from the terror of being bound and helpless. After the graveyard, he never wanted his hands tied up again. He took a breath and looked around again, pushing the pain to the back of his mind. In a way, it helped to ground him.

The sun was up, but hadn’t reached the noon height, and Harry was surprised to note that the temperature was noticeably cooler. Not uncomfortably so; he felt at ease, but enough that he guessed he had traveled some distance north.

After a few minutes of looking around and gathering his wits, Harry realized that he had better decide what to do. If a friend had sent him here, Harry should stay and wait. If it was an enemy, he’d want to at least get out of sight. Fast.

Having no idea where the nearest settlement was, he couldn’t exactly walk to a town and hitch a ride. He had no way of sending a message, either. His wand was still in Ministry custody…

Fighting the panic that had returned to prowl in the corners of his mind, Harry spotted a sizable collection of rocks about 150 meters away. If he walked there, he could hide amidst the boulders and watch this spot in case Dumbledore did send someone to pick him up.

Feeling better for a plan of action, he started to jog across the grass, ears pricked for signs of company. When he reached the rocks, he scouted them out, rock in hand, for waiting enemies.

Yeah, right, like Lucious Malfoy is gonna pop out behind a rock and shout “boo!” Finding the area empty, Harry found a good spot to sit and watch without his wild black hair peeking above the sun-bleached rocks. That’d be a way to go; The Boy Who Died Because He Lost Hide And Seek.

Bit of a mouthful. The Prophet would probably shorten it and spend the rest of the article gloating.

He had almost started to drift off in the sun’s warmth when a figure materialized by the sparrow’s bush. Harry immediately tensed, reaching for his wand and silently cursing when it wasn’t in his back pocket.

The figure was tall, slim, and wearing black. Death Eater?? It seemed to look around and realize that Harry was nowhere to be seen.

“Potter!”

A very, very familiar voice barked out, audible even from where he hid, and Harry felt his face rapidly drain of color.

Oh, no.

It wasn’t a Death Eater. It was worse.

It was Snape.

And the man sounded incredibly angry. Harry briefly considered just staying here and not coming out, but knew better. He stood from where he crouched, waving an arm.

“Here, professor!” he called.

Snape whipped around to glare at him as he picked his way through the boulders. The man crossed his arms, no doubt waiting for Harry to come to him so he could get properly yelled at.

Nothing new there, Harry griped as he approached, braced for a sharp admonishment.

“Potter, what in blazes were you doing over there?”

“I thought I should get out of sight, in case I was sent here by an enemy.”

“You thought,” Snape sneered. “Despite having been right under the Headmaster’s nose, you thought the Dark Lord sent you here.”

“Didn’t stop him in June,” he snapped, tacking on a hasty “sir” when the man’s face turned white with fury.

Surprisingly, Snape didn’t blow up at him. He just said, in a tight voice, “Come, Potter. We don’t have much time.” He turned and began walking.

Harry hurried to catch up, choosing to drop his anger in favor of asking the dozens of questions that had been running through his mind.

“Sir, what happened? Where are we? Did Dumbledore send me here—”

“Professor Dumbledore, Potter. Learn some respect—”

“Is everyone alright? What was that explosion in the Ministry?”

“That explosion was your distraction, Potter. The Headmaster is currently trying to convince a very angry Wizangamot that he has no idea where you are.” Snape gave him a side-eye. “Which, in a literal sense, he does not.”

“What?” Harry stopped where he was, staring at Snape in disbelief. “Didn’t he send me here?”

“I sent you here, Potter.”

Harry took a step back, eyes narrowing.

The man sneered and turned, crossing his arms. “Don’t panic. I’m here to protect you, Merlin help me. The Headmaster gave me this assignment in the event of a guilty verdict.” He began walking again.

Harry hesitated, then followed again. He was careful to stay out of arm’s reach, noting how the man’s fingers twitched. He was probably daydreaming about pickling Harry’s liver for a potion. “Where is ‘here’, anyways?”

“Somewhere isolated.” And that was all he would say.

Harry made a few more attempts at questioning, all of which were summarily rebuffed and sneered at. The only extra information he managed to extract was that Snape had been late in arriving because he’d been unexpectedly stopped and questioned. By whom, Harry didn’t know, but he grew tired of asking and getting no answer, so he quieted.

The trek across the landscape was no casual stroll. Harry was sweating in his dress clothes by the time Snape finally held up his hand for a stop. Feet aching, Harry sat on the ground. They’d been walking for several hours, and the sun had already reached and slightly passed its zenith. Snape barely spared him a glance as he removed a pouch from a pocket.

Harry’s eyes widened when the man’s hand plunged elbow-deep into the small bag.

“How…” he trailed off, not wanting to sound like an idiot, but Snape only said distractedly,

“Expansion charm, Potter.”

Potter this, Potter that. Harry wondered when they’d finally get to wherever they were going and he could get away from the surly Professor.

Snape’s hand emerged from the bag, holding what Harry was surprised to recognize as a Muggle protein bar. He tossed it at Harry, who caught it with a Seeker’s reflexes, and pulled out another one for himself.

“Eat up,” Snape said, sitting on a rock several feet away as if it physically pained him to be too close to Harry. “Unless it’s not good enough for the savior of the wizarding world.”

Harry could relate to the desire to be far away from his traveling companion as possible. He glared at him, opening the bar and eating it in several quick bites. He’d been too nervous to eat much breakfast, and seeing how justified his fears had been didn’t stop him from yearning for yesterday, when he’d been sitting around with his friends in Grimmauld Place.

“Why don’t we just apparate?” Harry asked, crinkling up the wrapper and stuffing it into his pocket.

Snape looked at him with apathy. “I would love nothing more than to hasten our separation, but the Headmaster has requested we remain uncontactable for a few days.”

“A few days!” Harry gaped, a worm of dread making itself unwelcome as Snape pushed himself to his feet.

“We fear the Ministry has been compromised,” Snape added, ignoring Harry’s distress. “So, as you still have the Trace, we will be unable to use magic at the moment.”

Harry wondered dully if he hadn’t actually escaped. Maybe this was his punishment. They decided that Azkaban was too good for him, so the Ministry engineered his own personal hell…

“Keep up,” Snape snapped, and Harry realized that he had already started walking again. Suppressing a grumble, he got to his feet and followed in his Professor’s wake.

“Where are we going?”

“A small fishing village on the coast. It may not be up to your standards, but it’ll have to make do until the situation has been stabilized.”

Harry suppressed a grimace. They’d come to the crest of a tall hill about half an hour ago, and he’d been able to see for miles. There’d been no sign of the ocean.

He’d finally gotten Snape to admit that they were traversing a stretch of the Scottish Highlands. He’d gotten the impression that the man was familiar with the area because he’d come to collect potions ingredients, but none of the nearby vegetation seemed like something they’d used in class. He knew better than to mention it, however. He could imagine Snape’s response now… Potter, I would expect even a student of your minimal cranial capacity to recognize the Flumdinger Berrysplash in the wild. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. I have seen your test grades. 

Harry smirked, unseen from where he walked a few feet behind the Potions Master, and amused himself by imagining the most ridiculous potion ingredient names he could come up with.

They took minimal rests; Snape seemed anxious to keep up a swift pace despite seeing no one all day. They didn’t stop for the day until the sky had darkened too much to see the ground properly.

“We can’t have a fire,” Snape said shortly, settling on the ground with his back against a boulder.

Harry nodded, unsurprised, as he also sat down on a mossy patch of ground.

Snape seemed to study Harry for a moment, then brought out the impossible pouch. He removed a pendant strung on a length of chord and handed it to him without a word.

Harry accepted it, bringing it close to his face to make out what it was in the rapidly deepening gloom. It was a flower wrought in silver, although he couldn’t tell which kind in the poor light. A faint glow seemed to emanate from it, and he could feel the buzz of magic in his hand as he held it.

“What is it?” he asked, looking up at Snape. The man’s face was oddly guarded, and when he spoke, his tone had an usual quality of reserve.

“A charmed object. It is intended to make those around it untraceable by magical means. I have one as well.”

“Does it work on the Trace?” Harry asked, sitting up eagerly.

“No,” Snape said with regret. “It prevents people from casting tracking spells on you. It should also shield you from any attempted scrying.”

Harry didn’t know much about scrying, but nodded anyways and slipped the pendant over his head. He tucked the charm into his shirt.

Dinner was half a block of cheese and some fruit. Harry detected the scent of preservation charms but didn’t comment. It was better than no food at all.

After he’d finished eating, Snape had wrapped himself in his robes like some large bird in its wings and laid down, his back to Harry. “You take first watch. Wake me in four hours,” he said curtly.

Harry didn’t have any trouble staying awake. Despite the long day of walking, his head was spinning with questions and worry.

Was Dumbledore in trouble? Harry had been mad at the man-in fact, he still was-but he didn’t want him to get in trouble on Harry’s behalf. There was also Mr. Weasley, who had been the one to bring him in and was surely under suspicion of getting him out again. His disappearance was probably all over the Prophet by now. Were Ron and Hermione worried? Did anyone else in the Order know that he was with Snape, or was that kept secret even from them? Were they even aware that he was safe?

Harry glanced at Snape’s back. The Professor’s customary snarky attitude, which was usually so unbearable, had somehow helped him stay calm. If Snape could still take the time to be a prat, things couldn’t be too awful.

Without anything else to distract him, Harry became more consciously aware of the stinging in his wrists. The rising moon cast a pale light on the wounds, and he noted that they didn’t look any better than they had earlier.

Harry didn’t have the exact time, but remembered enough from Astronomy class to make a close estimate of when four hours had passed based on the moon’s position. He hesitated, unsure how to wake the Professor, but Snape sat up at his first tentative whisper. He must be a light sleeper.

“I see we’re still alive,” he said. “Did you see anything?”

“No,” Harry said, not mentioning the time he’d nearly jumped out of his skin when he’d heard a screech that turned out to just be a bat flying overhead.

“Good. Now rest. I can barely stand you when you have enough sleep.”

If he was trying to get a rise out of Harry, it didn’t work. He merely stretched out on the moss, yawning into his hand to cover his eye roll.

He fell asleep after a few minutes, listening to Snape’s steady breathing as he scanned the countryside.

His dreams shifted, changing from one unsettling scene to the next until the night seemed a blur of unease and half-defined anxieties. He knew instantly, however, when the true nightmare began.

“Kill the spare.”

Cedric collapsed. Harry fell to his knees beside him, feeling his pulse, frantic. When he realized that he was truly, irrevocably dead, he held onto Cedric’s arm in a death grip. Wormtail approached and tried to pull him away, but his hands seemed glued to Cedric. He was shouting without knowing what words came out of his mouth, and Wormtail was shouting too, and then the rat-like hands around his shoulders became long and slender, and it was Snape trying to pull him away.

“Potter.”

Harry’s whole body trembled. “I can’t let go,” he gasped, now himself trying to pull away from Cedric, but unable to do so. Cedric’s open, glassy eyes seemed to stare at him in reproach. “I can’t let go!” His voice was becoming more frantic, and Snape shook him slightly.

“Potter!”

Harry’s eyes flew open to meet Snape’s obsidian black gaze, and he realized he was gasping for breath. As soon as he saw that Harry was awake, Snape let go of his shoulders and moved away.

Harry stared up at the sky, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat. The stars were gone, and early morning light was starting to creep along the horizon. A few birds were singing close by.

“Care to mention what that was about?” Snape asked, tone neutral.

“No, I bloody well don’t!” Harry snapped, sitting up and cradling his head in his hands as the memory of the dream faded slightly. After a moment, he lifted his gaze to Snape, who was still waiting for an answer. “It was Cedric.”

He waited for the sarcastic comment, the sneer, the judgment in Snape’s voice when he said something like “and the wizarding world puts their fate in your hands? We’re doomed”, but none of it came. The man merely looked at him for a few minutes, then pulled out the pouch of food. 

As the professor started rummaging through it, Harry felt oddly deflated. He didn’t know what he was waiting for. Comfort? An acknowledgement?

Snape only handed him breakfast. Harry ate it without thought to its taste or freshness. Cedric’s dead eyes were still looking at him in his mind. I can’t let go. Well, wasn’t that the truth?

Snape broke him out of his reverie. “I’d intended to start later, but since you’re up, we will leave now.” His voice was still in that neutral tone, and Harry found himself wishing he would revert to his usual contempt.

They stood. Harry suppressed a wince as his leg muscles ached from yesterday’s exertions. He kept his lips pressed tightly together, however, unwilling to give Snape yet another reason to judge him.

Stupid, stupid. Why hadn’t he been able to keep quiet? Sure, Snape was awake, but he might not have noticed Harry’s distress if he’d just been able to keep silent. Oh, who am I kidding? The man notices everything.

It was much more pleasant to walk in the cool of the early morning than in the afternoon heat, and Harry’s legs stretched out as they began moving. He found his mood improving despite the man walking ahead of him, and by the time the sun had fully risen, he’d managed to push the nightmare out of his mind.

“Potter!”

Tonight, the nightmare wasn’t so willing to let him go. Harry wavered between wake and sleep, Snape’s voice on one end and Voldemort’s high-pitched laughter on the other.

“Potter, wake up. It’s just a dream.”

Harry wanted to scream. He knew it was just a dream, but that didn’t make it any less horrible.

A slight stinging impact on his face abruptly ended the agony. He sat bolt upright, nearly colliding heads with Snape, and realized that the man had slapped him awake. He felt his cheek, vaguely noting that it didn’t hurt as much as he would have expected it to. It must have been a light slap.

Harry looked at Snape sideways. The man was sitting back on his heels, looking slightly frustrated. Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if Snape really wanted to hit him, after being forced to trek across the highlands for days on end and not even being able to get peace at night, all because of Harry. He looked away, face burning, not with pain, but shame. It’d been almost two months, but the nightmares weren’t getting any better. This was the third nightmare in a row that Snape had interrupted.

“Diggory?” Snape asked, voice tight.

“Voldemort,” Harry said, not seeing the man’s wince as he clambered to his feet. He looked out over the scenic view, breathing in the morning air. He wanted to run, run away from his nightmares, from Snape’s judgment, from the ache in his chest that had settled there after that night in the graveyard and hadn’t gone away since.

This dream had been different, though. He’d been Voldemort, had seen through his eyes. It was creepy, and he resisted a shudder. He noted, with consternation, that his scar seemed to be prickling. A quick glance around, however, proved that they were completely alone on the highlands.

They ate breakfast on the move that day. Harry became aware of an urgency in Snape’s movements. He probably wanted to get Harry off of his hands as quickly as possible. 

Harry scowled to himself. So what if he did? It wasn’t like Harry wanted to be near him, or cared about the man’s approval. His nightmare had put him in a melancholy mood.

He did his best to shake it off, but it became apparent that he was preoccupied when Snape threw out an arm to halt him as he walked.

Harry glanced at him questioningly, but Snape wasn’t looking at him. He was staring forward into a spot in the distance. “What is it?”

“People,” Snape said shortly.

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “Death Eaters?”

Snape watched them for a moment more, then slowly shook his head. “No.” His lip curled. “It’s a tourist group.”

Harry tried to look where Snape was staring, but the sun reflecting off of his glasses made it difficult to see. He lifted a hand to his forehead to block the sun.

Snape inhaled sharply, and Harry jumped a little when a hand clamped around his arm. Harry watched in confusion as Snape pulled his arm closer, eyes narrowing.

“What happened to your wrists?”

Oh, that. Harry flushed, shuffling his feet. “I, uh, had trouble cutting the ropes binding my wrists after the trial.”

Snape’s lips thinned as he grabbed Harry’s other arm, several inches above the wrist, and lifted it to inspect as well.

Harry didn’t really understand why the man would care. It was a minor inconvenience. He’d had much worse over the summers and before coming to Hogwarts. If it had happened at school, he wouldn’t even have bothered going to see Madame Pomfrey.

“It’s infected,” Snape said, scowling darkly. “Why didn’t you mention it immediately?”

“It’s not a big deal,” Harry said, pulling away and growing annoyed when Snape wouldn’t release his arms. “I can handle it.”

Snape gave him that look again. What did he want from Harry? He’d walked after him, uncomplaining, for three days, slept in the open, done his best not to overly irritate him. What was the man expecting? For Harry to collapse into histrionics because he couldn’t handle his own life?

The thought only reminded him of the nightmares, and he tried tugging free again.

“Hold still,” Snape said, frowning at Harry as he released one of his arms to bring out the impossible pouch. Harry immediately dropped his arm to his side, resisting the urge to argue when Snape pushed his arm back up. “If you would suck up your pride for five minutes, Potter, I can treat you!”

Of course Snape had a healing potion in his bag. When he uncorked it and moved as if to pour it on Harry’s wrists, Harry said, “Shouldn’t you save it? For something important, I mean?”

Snape impatiently waved his words away. “Potter, the wounds are infected. Unless you want to risk losing both hands, you’ll stop resisting!”

Gritting his teeth, Harry stopped talking and watched as Snape treated the wounds with potion. Harry relaxed despite himself as the pain he’d been trying to ignore all day faded. From the way Snape raised an eyebrow, he knew the man had noticed.

“Why,” he said dryly, “do you find your injury to be unimportant?”

Harry wanted to tell him to mind his own bloody business, but the man was looking at him with genuine curiosity.“Because it is,” he said flatly, looking back out at the landscape. To distract him, he said, “Are they getting closer?”

Snape huffed, as if he knew Harry was trying to change the subject, but looked anyway. “Perhaps.” He glanced around and pointed at a jumble of boulders not unlike the one Harry had taken refuge in when he’d first arrived on the highlands. “Come. We must not be seen.”

So it was that Harry found himself sitting on the ground, surrounded by scores of boulders, trying his best to avoid eye contact with Snape, who was watching him as though he were a particularly strange insect he planned on dicing up for some potion.

The Nightmarous Potter Fly. The Red-wristed Waterdiver. The Bug Who Lived. The Gra—

“Potter.”

Harry was getting sick of his own surname. He finally looked Snape full in the face, impatiently wondering what awkward or insulting conversation was about to follow.

“Have you ever heard of Occlumency?”

“Occlumency is the art of shielding one’s mind,” Snape stated.

Harry looked at him dubiously. They were sitting cross-legged, facing each other. Harry resisted the urge to fidget with his hands, which were resting on his knees at Snape’s instruction. “How do you do that?”

Snape scowled at him. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Potter. Now shut up and listen.”

Harry closed his eyes briefly to keep himself from rolling them. From the way the man was watching him crossly, Snape seemed to know it too.

"When the art is fully mastered, an Occlumens can protect himself from mental attacks by another wizard."

Harry was momentarily distracted by this revelation. "You mean that some people can actually read minds?"

Snape glared, as if Harry's abominable lack of knowledge was a personal affront. "Nothing so inane. The mind is not a book, to be opened and flipped through at a Legilimens' whim."

"Legilimens? Is that what they call people who can read minds?"

"They don't— yes, Potter, that is what they call them," Snape huffed, as though giving up on impressing any degree of the nuance of the situation to Harry.

Harry tried not to smile. It was too easy to get under the man's skin.

Then another thought came to mind. “Is Voldemort a Legilimens?”

“The Dark Lord, Potter!” Snape snapped, flinching.

“I’m not some sycophant. I won’t call him that.”

The implication that Snape himself was a ‘sycophant’ wasn’t lost on the man. His face clouded with anger, and he took several deep breaths. Speaking in a surprisingly calm voice, he said, “Occlumency is also helpful in aiding one to tolerate even the worst of people, as the mental and emotional discipline required is vital in resisting one’s more violent urges.”

Harry supposed that made sense. If Snape was a spy on Voldemort, then… hey, did Snape just imply—

“Wait—”

“Now, close your eyes.” Snape cut him off.

Aggrieved, Harry obeyed.

“A talented wizard may be able to set up a false front, a misleading group of memories with which to bait an attacker and hopefully prevent them from being able to notice that the Occlumens is blocking them at all. However, you will practice by simply clearing your mind—”

Harry wondered how much it cost the man to resist adding ‘if there’s anything up there to clear.’

“—as blocking an outsider is not your goal. You are merely trying to reign in your emotions enough to control your dreams.”

Oh. Harry had been wondering what the point of this was.

When Snape didn’t say anything else, Harry took a deep breath and tried to “clear his mind”.

His attention soon began to wander, however, and he snapped his eyes open to find Snape watching him.

“It’s impossible!” he exclaimed.

“And you’ve discovered this in all of five minutes?”

“Maybe you can just turn off your brain, but I find it hard to just not think!”

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. Harry vindictively hoped he would have a headache later. “It’s not a matter of ‘not thinking’; you need to think of nothing.”

“What’s the difference?”

“One requires focus. You need to actively clear your mind and consciously think of nothing.”

“How do you focus on nothing?” Harry asked, frustrated.

“Practice, Potter!”

Harry huffed and closed his eyes again. He really tried to do what Snape said, but now he was annoyed and his brain kept circling back to how irritating Snape is, how much he’d hated these past few days… no. Focus.

He let out an involuntary sigh and squeezed his eyes shut tightly. Focus. Focus.

As if knowing exactly what he was thinking, Snape began speaking softly. Harry distractedly noted the hypnotic quality of his voice. “Take note of your breathing. In. Out. Count the length of each breath. Make your exhales longer than your inhales.”

Harry grudgingly obliged, and found to his surprise that after a few cycles of breathing, his heart rate slowed.

“Focus on the breaths.”

Harry felt calmer. Not perfectly serene, but calmer. Some of the anxiously buzzing worries in his head quieted.

"Now allow your breathing to return to reflex, but hold on to the sense of peace."

Peace. Ha. That'd be nice. Harry had felt no peace for a while now.

No. Don't think about that right now.

While Harry doubted he'd perfected whatever technique Snape was trying to teach him—he’d definitely be doing his best impression of Snape saying “clear your mind” while sitting on the grass amid rocks for Ron and Hermione—he thought that even Snape couldn’t have failed to notice his mood improvement.

Snape moved to get up, and Harry opened his eyes to look at him.

“No, continue practicing.”

Harry closed his eyes again, doing his best to tune out the sound of Snape’s footsteps as he walked a few feet away, probably to see where the tourists were.

He swiftly returned, and Harry peeked through a partially open eyelid to see him quickly fold down to the same cross-legged seated position in one smooth movement.

It occurred to Harry that Snape was a lot younger than the other professors. If he had gone to school with Harry’s dad, as most of his meanest comments and slights against his parentage implied, then he couldn’t be over 40 years old.

“Continue,” Snape said. Harry refocused on blankness. “The tourist group seems to be making their way through this valley. They shouldn’t pass near these rocks, but it may be a couple of hours until they’ve completely passed out of sight.”

“You know, it's kind of hard to focus on nothing and also listen to someone talk to you.”

“If you cannot clear your mind under pressure, you will never make a successful Occlumens.”

Snape sounded so matter-of-fact about it. Harry took another few deep breaths to resist the urge to grind his teeth together and soon focused solely on nothing.

It probably would have been more boring if the calm state it created wasn't such a relief after the past few days of stress and frustration partially spurred by lack of quality sleep. As Harry felt himself sink deeper into the deliberate blankness, he noticed that the prickling pain in his scar seemed to fade. His wrists, of course, were healed, and his legs had grown accustomed to the frequent exertion. In a state of no pain at all for the first time in too many days, Harry slipped into an almost trancelike state.

He was never sure if he actually fell asleep like that or not, but Snape had to shake him slightly to bring him back to full awareness.

“They’re gone.”

Harry stood and stretched, wincing. His legs felt sore from sitting in one position so long. Still, his head felt clearer, and his heart lighter, than when he started. A glance up at the sky showed that the sun had slightly passed noon height. Snape passed him the water jug, and he drank gratefully.

“Did I just Occlument?” he asked Snape hopefully, passing it back and wiping the water from his mouth with the back of his hand.

Snape huffed at him. “Occlude, Potter. The word is ‘occlude’, and no, you did not.”

“What was that, then?”

“Basic meditation. You need to learn how to discipline and control your mind if you want to have any hope of learning more difficult techniques.” He handed Harry lunch. “But I will not be teaching you any more. The ability to clear your mind of thoughts and emotions will be sufficient to lessen the severity and frequency of your nightmares.”

Harry didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. He eyed Snape as they began walking. He had a strong suspicion that they’d be eating on the move more often, now that they had lost so much time hiding from tourists.

The man’s actions had honestly surprised him. Snape had never been anything but mean and dismissive of Harry. Why would he bother to teach him something to help his nightmares?

He considered lumping it in with healing his wrists as “strange things Snape did for no reason” until he realized that Snape was probably more than tired of hearing Harry cry out in his sleep. Or maybe he just wanted to keep Harry from talking for a couple of hours.

Whatever selfish reason that compelled the man to teach him what little he did, Harry was grateful for the potential sleep aid. He wasn’t too interested in learning anything else about Occlumency, however, especially if Snape was going to be his teacher.

Snape suddenly spoke up. “To answer your earlier question: yes. The Dark Lord is a very skilled Legillimens.”

A chill swept through Harry, and he reconsidered his earlier dismissal of the value of learning more Occlumency.

As if on cue, his scar began to burn.

So intense, so abrupt was this stab of pain after a morning of peace that Harry cried out and clutched his forehead, stumbling slightly.

Harry’s eyes glazed over. For a moment, he felt a fierce stab of frustration that was not his own, followed by a shaft of cold intent that seemed to lance his heart. His legs gave out under him and he fell to the ground, Snape still clutching his shoulders. 

“Potter!”

“He’s upset,” Harry muttered, cautiously removing his hands as the pain ebbed.

Snape’s eyes instantly flickered to Harry’s scar, and his face shifted from panic—panic? Over Harry?—to horror.

“Who is upset?” he asked, looking Harry directly in the eyes and gripping his shoulders more firmly to make Harry face him more fully.

“Voldemort,” Harry said, wishing fiercely for the serenity of half an hour ago. “He’s frustrated, but now he’s determined to do something.” He grabbed Snape’s forearm and looked at the man with sudden purpose. “He’s going to kill someone.”

“Who? Who is he going to kill?”

“I… don’t know,” Harry said, the intensity draining out of him. He slumped, and Snape let him.

Harry watched the professor from the ground as the man paced back and forth.

“When did you start having these visions, Potter?” Snape stopped and turned to him, face and voice tense.

“It’s… not really a vision… at least, this one wasn’t,” Harry said confusedly. “It’s just a pain in my scar, and a flash of emotion.” He hesitated, then decided to really doom himself. “There was a dream, though.”

“What did you see in this ‘dream’?” Snape asked.

The man’s intensity caught Harry off guard. He related the dream from last night, as well a few other instances of sudden, foreign emotion. When he finished, Snape began pacing again, and Harry tracked his movements nervously with his eyes.

“Why did you tell no one of this?” Snape said angrily, and Harry shrunk back a little despite himself.

“Who? And what was the point?” Harry retorted, slightly ashamed of himself for flinching. It’d been a couple of days since he’d truly feared Snape; traveling together without Snape actually hurting him, despite plenty of incentive and opportunity, had made him feel more annoyed with the man than anything, rather than outright afraid. Still feeling defensive, he added, “I might have told Dumbledore, but he’s been doing a pretty bang-up job of avoiding me like the plague lately.”

Snape stopped looking agitated long enough to roll his eyes. “Yes, because the Headmaster’s every action revolves around you. I’m sure there’s no way he could be busy with other things, such as dealing with the Ministry, Hogwarts, convincing the world of an oncoming war, and preparing for said war. No, he’s just decided to hurt your feelings on a whim.”

Harry, abashed, turned away. He took several of those deep meditation breaths as he looked out over the highlands.

“Come.” Harry looked up to see Snape jerk his head in the direction they’d been traveling. “We must keep going.”

Harry staggered to his feet and walked behind Snape.

They emerged from the valley to find themselves standing on a slight incline. Harry sucked in a breath.

From up ahead, the wind carried towards the two travelers a salty taste in the air. Still a good distance away, the unmistakable sight of the sea glimmered in the sun like a promise. He smiled. Hadn’t Snape said that their destination was a fishing village on the coast? Harry didn’t see any buildings, but if he could see the ocean, they must be getting closer.

Snape spoke up as if reading his thoughts. “When we reach the village, we’ll be able to contact the Order.”

“How?” Harry asked.

“You will remain within whatever quarters we manage to find while I remove myself to a sufficient distance so that the trace isn’t alerted.”

“Why didn’t you just do that in the first place, then?” Harry asked, a spark of irritation coming to life. He could’ve been spared several pointless days of endless walking, practically being bit to death by midges, and Snape’s constant dubious company.

“Potter, if you would stop and think for a moment, you might recall that you have been convicted by one of the highest courts of wizarding laws in this country. You disappeared from the middle of the Ministry without a trace, and everyone is looking for you. The Dark Lord, who we suspect has infiltrated the Ministry in order to orchestrate the entire thing, will also be searching for you. At the Headmaster’s insistence, you and I have been completely out of contact or traceability for a few days until the dust settles and the Order knows who has done what, and what measures we need to be prepared for. The only way to completely protect you, because all of this trouble is directly to protect you, was to cut off all communication.” He pointed at the sea. “When you are finally in a moderately defensible position, then, and only then, am I willing to leave you to your own devices.”

Deflated, Harry turned back to the distant sight of the ocean. “Fine.” He started walking. “Let’s just hurry up and get to the village.”

Snape caught up with him a moment later, and Harry waited for him to take the lead like always, but he didn’t. He walked beside Harry. A quick glance showed that the professor looked exasperated but, more than that, worried.

Harry wondered when he’d ever seen anything but dislike on Snape’s face. Not before these past days of traveling together. He supposed that it was impossible, even for Snape, to have only one emotion for 72 hours, but it was as if he had forgotten the Professor was actually a human being. He’d always seemed so implacable, like a statue that no one could break.

It almost scared Harry to see him looking so… desperate.

“Hurry, Potter,” Snape said, picking up his pace. “The sooner we reach the village, the better for everyone.”

Harry let Snape get a few paces ahead before matching speed. He didn’t like seeing that anxiety on the man’s face. 

“Sir?” he said, much more subdued, “I’m sorry. About the trouble.”

Snape glanced at him over his shoulder, and this time Harry could not place the expression on his face at all.

“Yes, well, none of us want to see you dead.” Then he began walking even faster, as if half-ashamed of saying something not insulting to Harry.

Harry hid a smile and started jogging.

“In the water.”

“What?”

“Our plan for entering the village is to look as though we lost our boat at sea.”

“Why?” Harry was baffled. “How come we can’t just go in? Won’t we just bring more attention to ourselves?”

“It’s a village of less than forty people. Everyone will no doubt be talking about us only a few hours after we arrive, no matter how subtle we are. We have no luggage, and no reason to be here. We’ve been walking for several days in the same clothes. Unless you want everyone to think we escaped the penitentiary, we will create a thorough cover story for ourselves.”

“By taking a swim?”

“By staggering down the main road like we just swam for our lives.”

He waded out into the water. Harry reluctantly followed.

He remembered the second task, but there was only a slight comparison. Then, he’d been worried about Ron, and hundreds of people had been watching and probably hoping he’d die, and he hadn’t even known if the gillyweed would work.

Now, he could feel the salt water of the ocean lap against his feet where he stood at the water’s edge, feet bare, the sand warm against his toes. It was evening, and the sun was beginning to set into the highlands behind them. He watched Snape as the man walked farther out into the water. When he turned to look at Harry, the sun reflected off of his pale face, but Harry’s own expression was in shadow.

“What is it?” Snape asked.

Harry cleared his throat. “Nothing.”

It was beautiful. The world around him, in this moment, was beautiful.

Harry took one step into the surf, winced at the cold, then took another, then kept walking until he was submerged to the middle of his chest. Snape took a deep breath, then dove underwater. Harry watched him do a few dolphin kicks below the surface before he came up for air, flipping his drenched hair back and out of his face.

He waded back to where Harry stood, shivering in the unexpectedly cold water.

“Fully soaked,” Snape reminded him.

Harry looked at him mutinously, wrapping his arms around himself and trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

He should have been prepared. First of all, the smile that spread across Snape’s face was never one that boded well for any student. Second, the man wasn’t exactly going to relent after having made up his mind. Third, why else would Snape have suddenly dove back underwater?

When a hand wrapped around his ankle, Harry only had time to inhale a quick lungful of air and squeeze his eyes shut before finding himself completely submerged in the water.

He emerged again, spluttering, to hear the last sound he’d ever expected to hear. 

Snape was laughing. Not even a sarcastic bark or a snigger, but a full-voiced laugh that had the man throwing back his head.

Caught more off-guard than when he’d been pulled under, Harry looked at him askance. Then, if a smile of its own made its way onto his face… well, there was no around besides Snape anyways.

Then the moment was over, and Snape was walking back toward shore. Harry followed, wiping water away from his eyes and gasping aloud when the wind hit his wet clothes.

“I guess you don’t have a couple of towels stashed away in your Mary Poppins bag?”

“Unfortunately not. We are, however, only a ten minute walk from the village.”

As they put their shoes back on and started walking down the beach, Harry practiced his exhausted shuffle.

“As for our aliases, I will be Samuel Paine from Essex, and you are my nephew Henry—”

“Sir, I’d rather not be uncle and nephew.” Even the thought of calling Snape “uncle” left a sour taste in his mouth. Anything that brought Vernon Dursley to mind…

“Why not? I assure you, Mr. Potter, that I will not be posing as your personal butler.” Snape’s voice was terse and colder than how he had spoken to him for a few days, and Harry realized that he’d offended the man by giving the impression that he didn’t want to act related to Snape.

Embarrassed and frustrated by his own fears and inability to express himself properly, Harry flushed and said, “No, that’s not what I meant at all!”

Snape only raised an eyebrow, so Harry stuttered, “It’s just— I don’t have the best— my uncle, he’s— we don’t really, er, get on…” Harry stopped, face beet red, and tried again. “I’d just rather not pretend you were my uncle, because my uncle wouldn’t…” Wouldn’t what? Wouldn’t have even bothered to save his life, much less go through the trouble that Snape had for days? Wouldn’t have healed his wrists? Wouldn’t have shown him a way to deal with his nightmares? Wouldn’t have pulled him underwater, not out of malice or to humiliate him, but in a simple moment of surprisingly lighthearted fun? Wouldn’t have worried about his strange connection to Voldemort, even if it was because of his role in the war? “He wouldn’t have done everything you have,” Harry finished lamely, looking down at his shoes.

He knew that Snape was studying him, so he resolutely watched his feet as they walked along the beach.

When the man finally spoke, he sounded mild. Too mild.

“What would your uncle have done, Potter?”

Ah, there was Snape’s talent for asking whatever question Harry least wanted to answer.

“Well…” Harry cleared his throat. Then cleared it again. What was he supposed to say? “Well, Uncle Vernon, you know, he’s not magical, so.”

“You once again blow me away with your eloquence.”

Harry scowled. Why was Snape even asking? What did he care? What did it matter? “He wouldn’t have been able to get me out of there—” ha, as if he’d try, and not cheer when Harry was found guilty… “—so it’s kind of a moot point.”

Snape clearly wanted to ask more questions, but at that moment, there was a scream from up ahead.

A woman, presumably one of the village residents, dropped the basket she was holding and ran to them.

Severus, who had been expecting a threat, aborted his movement to grab his wand and swayed slightly for effect instead.

Potter caught on quickly and gave a pitiful cough into his hand. Severus repressed a smirk.

The woman appeared to be in her mid fifties. She reached them and grasped Severus’ shoulder. He leaned into the hand as if he were about to fall over.

“Are you alright? What happened to you two?” She asked when she felt how wet Severus’ clothes were.

“Boat sank,” he said, looking down at Potter woefully.

She began to guide them towards the village that Severus could see in the near distance.“Was there anyone else aboard besides you and your son?” She asked.

Potter gave a sudden, wracking cough, and Severus glared at him, but the woman shook her head with compassion. “Swallowed water, I suppose?”

Potter nodded, face still looking a bit red.

“There was no one else,” Severus shook his head weakly.

“And all your things gone too, by the looks of it.” The woman tsked.

They reached the outlying buildings, and several people saw them and came running.

The woman, who seemed to have taken on the role of both escort and protector, shooed them off. “This way.”

She used her foot to nudge open the door to a small cottage near the edge of the town. Severus kept a wary eye on the villagers, but none of them appeared to pose any threat.

The inside of the cottage was cozy but dry. It had only one room, with a bed in the corner partially concealed behind a privacy screen. The area where they stood was a simple kitchen. A circular table with four chairs around it stood in the center. Another portion of the cottage was dedicated to a sitting area with a couch, two armchairs, and a fireplace.

Potter moved to sit in a kitchen chair before seeming to realize that he was still dripping with water. Instead, he backed up to the center of the floor and appeared to be trying to make as little mess as possible.

Noting this odd behavior for later consideration, which was so unlike how he would have expected the spoiled child to act, Severus turned to the woman. “My name is Samuel Paine. This here is Henry.” He moved to place a hand on Potter’s shoulder. The boy jerked a little bit from the unexpected contact. Severus frowned but didn’t say anything.

“English, by the sound of ye,” the woman said. “I’m Amelia Duncan, but most ‘round here call me Amy. Now, I won’t be asking you too many questions, as I bet you’ve had quite the day.” She moved to a dresser near the bed and pulled out two towels, handing one to each of them.

“I can’t tell you how grateful we are,” Severus said as she started bustling about in the kitchen.

“None of that, now. Everyone here knows that the sea is a fickle mistress. It gives us food and life, but also takes when it has a mind.”

Twenty minutes later, Severus and Potter were sitting at the table, still wrapped up in the towels as Amy plunked twin bowls of soup in front of them.

The door opened and a man entered. Heavy-set with a weathered face, he looked first at the two people hungrily eating, then at Amy.

“What happened?”

Amy gestured at Severus and Potter. “This is Mr. Samuel Paine and his son, Henry. Their boat sank. They managed to get ashore and walked to the village, but everything aboard was lost. They don’t have anywhere to stay. Practically drowned, the poor dears.”

This was a bit more than Severus had said, but he kept silent.

Amy turned to Severus and Potter. “This is my husband, Malcolm.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Paine,” Mr. Duncan said, shaking Severus’ hand.

“Samuel, please.”

“Malcolm, then.”

“Hello, sir,” Potter said in a hoarse voice. Severus didn’t know if he was acting or burned his throat in his eagerness to eat some warm food for a change.

“Glad to see that you’re alright.”

They engaged in a little conversation, but Amy soon ushered her husband out, reminding Severus to rest and make sure “Henry” didn’t catch a cold. “Remember, you’ll find extra clothes in that wardrobe there.”

Once they were gone, Severus returned to his meal to find that Potter was looking at him.

“What?”

“You were being… nice.”

“It is something I can achieve when the need arises.”

The boy looked like he wanted to laugh, but wasn’t sure if he should.

Severus went back to eating, and was slightly surprised when he spoke up again.

“Sir, this seems…” he trailed off when Severus looked at him expectantly, and the older man crossed his arms.

“What?”

“Well… it feels like we’re taking advantage of these people. We didn’t really almost drown, or anything like that.”

Incredulous, Severus looked at Potter and saw that the boy’s bright green eyes reflected genuine worry.

“Spare me from the moralizing of a Gryffindor!” Severus exclaimed to the ceiling, before leveling his gaze to the boy again. “You are being hunted down by a genocidal maniac who wants to brutally murder you, just as he tried to do when he orphaned you as a child. Some might argue,” he said, pointing his spoon at Potter, “that that is worse than an accidental boat sinking where no one, even pretend, died. Do not feel bad about it.”

The boy sighed in exasperation, but the look of gratitude on his face wasn’t missed by the Potions Master. Slightly disconcerted, Severus returned to his food.

The conversational lull gave Severus the opportunity to reflect on earlier events. The boy’s question had brought Potter’s recent behavior to mind, and he frowned slightly.

He had no idea what to make of Potter lately. He’d always been able to attribute the boy’s every look, word, or action to several things he knew about him. At least, things he’d thought he knew about him.

Would a spoiled brat traverse across difficult terrain, by foot, for days on end, making zero complaint? Would an attention-seeking quidditch star hide his injuries as if they were a matter of no importance? Would a thoughtless child with no regard to the consequences of his actions have constant nightmares about something that wasn’t even his fault?

Severus was disturbed by this train of thought. If the boy was none of these things, then the older man knew absolutely nothing at all about him.

Nothing.

Unaware of Severus’ reverie, Potter asked, “If today’s August…” he appeared to count in his head, “15th, then how long are we going to stay here? Until school starts?”

“Perhaps,” Severus said, frowning slightly. He’d thought the boy would be eager to get as far from him as possible, but his face didn’t say so now. More unsettling, Severus found that he himself didn’t dread the prospect of a slightly extended stay. Another thing to reflect on later. “Probably not.” His role as a spy meant that he could be called away at any moment, and it wasn’t wise to leave Potter unprotected, even for a few hours.

“Oh.” Potter looked down into his soup.

“I’d have thought you would be eager to return to your friends.” Severus said slowly.

Potter didn’t look up. “I am! It’s just…” he trailed off in confusion, then squared his shoulders. “No. You’re right. I do want to go back to Grimmauld Place.” He stood and carried his bowl to the sink, where he began to clean it.

Severus watched his back, eyes narrowed in thought. “You know that secrecy is the only weapon we have here.”

The boy nodded his head, not turning around.

“Potter.”

The boy sighed. “I know. The past few days just… haven’t been as awful as I might have expected.”

Severus didn’t respond. He didn’t exactly know how. He did, however, understand what Potter didn’t know how to say.

They lapsed into silence after that, and half an hour later both had gone to bed, exhausted by the day’s events. Potter quietly took the couch, and Severus slept on the bed.

Three hours of sleep. Three hours before Severus was awoken by the sounds he was rapidly coming to expect: Potter in the throes of some fresh nighttime horror. He rose from bed and blearily rubbed his eyes as he staggered to the couch.

“Potter.”

The boy whimpered, a sound strangely humbling coming from the boy who had stood up to him with blazing eyes and a disrespectful tongue time after time in class. Severus cautiously gripped his arm, having recently learned from experience that the child did not respond well to unexpected contact.

“It’s only a dream.”

That worked about as well as it usually did. Sighing, Severus knelt on the floor beside the couch and grabbed both of the boy’s shoulders. “Potter. Wake up.”

“Cedric…”

Severus could barely make out the name, but when he did, he bowed his head for a moment. No doubt the boy had forgotten to meditate before falling asleep. Severus shook his shoulders a few times. “Potter. Harry!”

This seemed to have an effect where nothing else would. The boy’s eyes flew open with a gasp, staring unseeing at the ceiling, and a hand clutched the front of Severus’ borrowed shirt.

“Pott—Harry. It’s alright. It was only a dream.”

Green eyes met black, filled with such pain that Severus’ heart clenched.

“Every night, he dies again in my dreams,” the boy said, anguished voice barely audible as he hunched in on himself, releasing Severus’ shirt and wrapping his arms around his thin chest.

Merlin. He seemed so young. In a flash of painful clarity, Severus fully realized for the first time that, no matter what else he might be, Harry Potter was only a child.

“I know,” Severus said softly.

It was hard to tell in the gloom, but he thought he could detect a blush spread across the boy’s face as he determinedly looked anywhere but at Severus. He realized that the boy was probably embarrassed, so the man stood to return to bed.

Before he left, however, some instinct made him hesitate. Unsure of himself, as it had been years since he’d physically comforted anyone, he laid a hand on Potter’s shoulder. Predictably, the boy stiffened; but, just as Severus was going to pull away, he relaxed. Severus stood there for a moment, feeling the tension drain out of the skinny shoulder.

Then a quiet sob came from the young teen. Severus might have doubted his own ears if he hadn’t felt the shoulder under his hand heave with the movement of it.

Sweet Circe. Anyone could have done a better job at this than Severus.

Still, long-repressed memories of crying alone in his bedroom at Spinner’s End as a child had him rounding the couch again to sit next to Potter, who had covered his hand with a sleeve and was trying to muffle the sounds. Why was he trying so hard to silence himself?

Severus said nothing, self-conscious and unsure of what to do. All he could remember from his own childhood was not wanting to be so alone.

The Gryffindor didn’t seem to be picky about comforts. He sniffled into his sleeve a few more times before slumping backwards, energy spent.

They sat side-by-side on the couch, staring off into the dark, not speaking, for a long time.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Severus asked tiredly, although he was beginning to fear he might already know the answer.

“For waking you.”

“Do not trouble yourself over it.” Severus clasped his hands together, looking down at his knees. “Are you alright?”

He felt, rather than saw, the teen’s nod.

“You might try the meditation techniques I showed you,” Severus reminded him.

“I forgot.” The self-reproach in Potter’s voice silenced the sarcastic response that immediately leapt to Severus’ lips.

“Then now is your chance to try it. You really should get back to sleep. Tomorrow may be a very long day.”

“Yes, sir.”

Severus silently sighed. Where was the quick-mouthed student that always had a clever answer ready? This subdued, reserved child was not the person Severus had known for years. He stood. “Goodnight, Potter.”

“Goodnight, Professor.”

Harry woke up with a start at 5:30 when the strident tones of a bagpipe blasted through the village. Across the room, he heard Snape roll off of the bed and hit the ground with a curse.

"Oh, shut up!" An angry female voice shouted from somewhere outside, but the bagpipes continued.

"What in blazes—?" Snape muttered, and Harry smirked in the dark. "Shut up, Potter."

"I didn't say anything!" Harry protested indignantly.

"You were thinking too loud," Snape groaned, shuffling to the kitchen. "Go back to bed."

Too late, Harry thought, smiling when a dog started howling somewhere along with the bagpipes.

A chill draft came down the chimney across from Harry, and he shivered, drawing his blanket closer around his shoulders. 

It was amazing how quickly the body became adjusted to comforts. It was something he'd first noticed when he got used to three full meals a day only a week after arriving at Grimmauld Place this past year. Since the trial, he'd spent several nights in a row sleeping in the open, waking up drenched in dew; but only now was he thinking about how cold he was from a couch indoors.

Shaking his head at himself and smiling, Harry stood and walked to the kitchen table, bare feet making hardly any noise on the wooden floors.

Snape had begun making coffee in a pot on the stove. Harry watched him move through the kitchen, fighting a yawn. He sat at one of the chairs and let his forehead fall onto the table. His interrupted sleep hadn’t exactly left him refreshed. His body still ached from the days spent trekking across country, and his shoes were probably a loss. At least I’ll be in shape for Quidditch. Then a frown crossed his face, and he looked up at Snape.

“Will I be able to go to school in the fall?”

Snape paused, then got down two mugs from a cabinet, dusting them out with his sleeve. “Not unless the Headmaster is able to convince the Ministry to overturn their verdict.”

“I won’t be going to school,” Harry sighed, thumping his head a few times.

Snape nudged his arm with a cup, and Harry looked up and accepted it. Snape poured some of the coffee into it, and Harry took a grateful sip. The hot drink seemed to warm him from the inside out, and he relaxed back against his chair.

“Likely not,” Snape said.

That was the thing about Snape. He just told the truth, plain and without any extra fluff or platitudes. He might add a liberal dose of slights against his mental fortitude and other Special Snape™ insults, but he’d never lied to Harry. Not that he knew of, at least.

The man sat across from him after pushing open the curtain on the window above the sink. In the pale morning light, Harry could tell that Snape also looked exhausted. “Today, I will be contacting the Headmaster.”

Harry nodded. If he was going to be separated from his friends while they got to enjoy school, he wanted to at least talk with them before they went back to the castle.

A sharp stab of resentment cut through Harry, and he realized that he was clutching the cup with white knuckles. He took a mediation breath and forcibly loosened his grip. He wanted to rave about how it wasn’t fair, but knew exactly how well Snape would take that little fit. “How far will you go?”

“Far enough so that I will not be seen by any of the villagers.”

Harry nodded and took another drink. He glanced out the window as a young, frazzled woman stumbled past, plugging her ears.

Wincing at a particularly high note, Snape said, “While I am gone, you are to remain on the couch.” Harry frowned. Sure, he was tired, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be restricted to sitting all day! He’d go mad. Before he could argue, however, the professor continued. “Your cough yesterday was well placed. No one who visits while I am out will think twice to see you resting on the couch. In fact, Amy warned me several times not to let you develop pneumonia. I told her that you had gotten a lot of water in your lungs.”

“Do I have to fake-cough then?”

“Once or twice, if you think you can pull it off again. It’d be easiest to just pretend to be asleep. I’m sure that won’t be a problem for you,” Snape sneered.

Harry rolled his eyes. For Snape, that was positively weak. He wondered whether Snape’s insults were more habit by now than anything else.

“When are you leaving?”

“As soon as Amy returns. She told me she would check in on us.”

Snape, having finished his coffee rather quickly, refilled the cup and began making breakfast.

Harry watched him for a moment, then stared at the remaining liquid in the bottom of his cup. There were two weeks left of summer; two weeks for Dumbledore to get the Ministry off his back. The man was the most powerful wizard in Great Britain, but Harry had to wonder if even the Headmaster had that much influence.

Appetite suddenly gone, he only looked up at Snape when the man plunked a plate of eggs in front of him. “Eat,” the professor said. Harry picked up the fork and began eating mechanically.

Snape himself didn’t eat breakfast, and Harry found himself almost saying something about how he should at least have some toast, but fought the impulse. The man wouldn’t appreciate Harry’s interference, so he finished his meal in silence. When he finished, he took his plate to the sink to wash it. He became absorbed in his worries about school and didn’t notice Snape come up behind him until he turned and saw him within arm’s reach. He jumped in surprise, and the man looked at him curiously, but Harry turned away with a slight blush and busied himself by drying his hands on a towel. When he shifted back to Snape, he saw that the professor was holding out a book.

“This was in the bookshelf in the corner. It is Muggle, of course, but you will read it.”

“I will?” Harry said doubtfully, looking down at the book. The Art of War. It looked dusty and long. He wanted to argue “but it’s summer!”, but thought better of it.

“Yes,” Snape said. “Just because you are in hiding does not mean you can allow your education to suffer.”

Harry snorted. Voldemort was after him, and he might spend the rest of his life in hiding from the Ministry. Schoolwork wasn’t the first, second, or even tenth thing on his mind. “I’ll be able to make up for not going to Hogwarts by reading…” he peered at the cover, “Sun Tzu?”

“Just read the book, Potter,” Snape said exasperatedly. Harry finally took the tome from his teacher, facial expression clearly showing what he thought about Snape’s latest instruction.

Harry ignored the glare Snape gave him and went back to the couch, settling on one end. He wrapped himself in his blanket and propped up the book, preparing himself for a long haul.

Before he began reading, however, Snape set a piece of lined paper on the end table beside Harry, along with a Muggle fountain pen. “At the end of each chapter, write five pieces of advice that stood out to you.”

Becoming aware that his mouth was hanging open, Harry looked down at the book mutinously. “Yes, sir,” he managed to choke out. He had no right! Just because Snape had rescued him didn’t mean the man could—

Harry checked his internal rant, reminding himself that he’d probably get bored pretty quickly with nothing else to do anyways.

Shifting his focus back to the book, Harry skipped the preface and began with the first chapter.

Laying Plans

Sun Tzu said: The art of war is of vital importance to the state. It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or ruin. Hence it is a subject of inquiry which can on no account be neglected.

The art of war, then, is governed by five constant factors…

Harry almost resented how interested he was becoming. He hardly noticed when the bagpipes finally stopped, only aware of the sudden silence because Snape sighed in relief.

The first chapter was short, but left Harry reeling; when taken in the context of the upcoming war against Voldemort, he realized that there was far more going on that he had ever even considered. For the first time, he really understood how busy Dumbledore was. As he poised the pen over the paper Snape provided, he mulled over the new questions and half-formed ideas beginning to tumble through his brain.

What currently stood out most, perhaps because he was in hiding, were the points about deceit and misleading your enemy. 

All warfare is based on deception.

He thought about how Barty Crouch Jr. had polyjuiced as Mad-Eye. Obviously it had given him the opportunity to throw the Tournament and kidnap Harry, but there was more to consider. He’d been his teacher for an entire year. How much had he learned about the defense knowledge of the younger generation? About the various sixth and seventh years about to become adults and possible aurors? About Harry himself? Dumbledore had trusted him. How much did Crouch, and now Voldemort, know about the Light Side’s defenses? What did he now know about how ready they were for a war?

How much stronger was Voldemort now because of it?

Shaking his head and feeling ill, Harry jotted down, “Be prepared for anything from your enemy, especially what they seem least likely to do.”

He went back to thinking about the book. Much of the last part of the chapter involved doing what your enemy least expected. Attack where they are not ready, seem near when you are far and far when you are near, use bait to entice them into a trap. It was all about deception again, wasn’t it? Picking up his pen, he wrote, “Never let them know your next move. Make things appear to be what they are not.”

Looking down at his two (out of five) points, Harry grimaced and glanced at Snape. The man was sitting in an armchair facing the empty fireplace, reading another book. Unsure what else to write, Harry flipped through the first chapter again and his eye caught a point that made him smile. If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. Harry wasn’t sure of the exact definition of choleric, but he’d heard Aunt Petunia complain about Number Seven’s choleric baby and how it was always crying and in a bad mood.

Harry’s smile grew larger as he remembered the baby-like form Voldemort had taken during fourth year. Yeah, “choleric” seemed like a perfect word to describe Voldemort. The Dark Wizard cursed his own followers and enjoyed torturing a teenager. Harry wrote, “Take advantage of Voldemort’s unpredictable moods and chorelic-ness.” Then, using the part about pretending to be weak as a different point since he was struggling to think up of five, he added below it, “Train in secret. Don’t let V. know how much you know.” Hoping Snape wouldn’t say he was being cocky by thinking he could learn something useful against Voldemort, he added a side note next to that fourth point. “(Occlumency?)” After all, Harry had no illusions that he could learn offensive magic advanced enough to top Voldemort.

He was still trying to think of a fifth note when the door opened and Mrs. Duncan entered. Harry quickly stuffed the paper into the book to mark his page as she came over to check on him.

“Henry, how are you?”

Harry smiled weakly and pulled the blanket tighter around himself.

“Thank you for coming, Amy,” Snape said, setting aside his own book and standing up. Something about him seemed to shift as he played his role.

“It’s no trouble,” she said, setting the bowl of food she’d brought with her on the kitchen table.

“Now that I’ve rested up, I want to check the beach for any signs of our boat washing up.” Snape glanced at Harry with concern, adding, “I didn’t want to leave Henry alone, though, without letting someone know where I’d gone. He’s still not feeling well.”

Taking his cue, Harry coughed. Deceive the enemy. Mrs. Duncan wasn’t the enemy, though. She was just a nice lady who’d helped two strangers. Harry pushed away the residual guilt and stretched out to lay down on the couch again.

“Of course.” Mrs. Duncan peered closer at Snape. “Are you sure you’re well enough to go? My husband could accompany you. You look awfully thin and pale.”

Harry disguised his laugh with another cough, grateful that Snape was the concerned father right now and not the stern professor, because he might have been cleaning out the cupboards with a toothbrush otherwise.

“I will be alright. Thank you. Henry, I’ll be back soon.” Snape briefly laid a hand on Harry’s head before leaving. This time, Harry didn’t wince, but watched him leave with a strange emotion coursing through him.

Mrs. Duncan must have seen it on his face, because she sat on the recently vacated armchair and said kindly, “Don’t worry. He’ll be alright. Your father is a determined sort. I can tell.”

Harry blinked. Was he worried?

Not sure how to respond, he said, “Yeah.” He settled further into the couch, feeling confused.

The touch, brief and false as it was, had reminded Harry of the nightmare last night. Snape had woken him and sat beside him as if he understood that Harry wanted someone to be with him but didn’t know how to ask for it. Harry could barely reconcile that memory with countless others of a sneering, hateful professor that tormented him in school.

To escape the sudden jumble of emotion, Harry closed his eyes and allowed himself to sleep.

Severus observed the village’s occupants as he passed by. Everyone glanced at him curiously, but no one attempted to speak to him. The place seemed to be just waking up as he strode purposefully towards the shore.

The village was one of the many different places Severus had scouted out when Dumbledore asked him to be ready to remove Potter to an isolated location if the trial went badly. He’d seen the village in the distance a few times while out collecting ingredients, but had never entered it. He’d done some research, however, and it had turned out to be an ideal hideout.

Too small to even have a name, and certainly too small to make its way onto a map, the tiny fishing community had largely escaped the world’s notice. No roads inland led to it because of its distance from any other settlements, although it had a steady commerce outside of itself.  Water vessels were used to transport mail, food, medicine, manufactured goods, and other supplies to and from the village; and if anyone was in need of emergency medical attention beyond the means of the local Advanced Nurse Practitioner, the nearest hospital was on an island less than half an hour away by speed boat. Electricity had reached the village some 50 years ago by efforts of the Lochalsh Distribution Scheme, and although several families owned generators, the majority of the power came from a water mill set on a stream that cut through the center of the village as it emptied into the sea. The roads were unpaved, and the main occupation was fishing. The buildings lay as close as fifty feet to the water’s edge, where many different crafts were tied to docks or beached on the sand. By virtue of this combination of modern and old, the community had developed its own little quirks and culture separate from anywhere else. This made it an ideal place for the two of them to hide, as it virtually existed in a bubble independent of the rest of the world.

Severus regretted that the Potter boy would not be able to remain here after they separated. The cover they had crafted for themselves would not hold up if another Order member came to babysit the teen. The other villagers would immediately become suspicious if Potter’s “father” disappeared and was replaced by another adult. Severus was expecting Dumbledore to call him back to London during today’s conversation, and Potter was just going to have to come with him. Amy had already said something about getting a boat to take to a city. Severus had been as noncommittal in his answer as possible, but he could easily take her up on the offer. At the city, he would Apparate Potter to Headquarters and they would part ways.

As he walked along the beach, away from the village and back in the direction they’d come, he found himself thinking. The two of them could remain here, in this village. Severus could set the teen assignments and fix his previously negligible work ethic. A month of tutoring by Severus, and Potter could really improve both his grades and common sense. He’d teach the child not to be so reckless, and—

Severus shook himself. It wasn’t going to happen. Even if he wanted to stay here, which he didn’t, he had too much to do. He had potions to brew for both the Dark Lord and the Headmaster, meetings of both groups to attend, and would need to teach Potions again as soon as the school year began.

He walked for a full half hour until he reached a shallow depression in the side of a hill. Not prominent enough to be considered a cave, but it would provide adequate concealment. The almost-encounter with tourists had only proven that the wilderness was not perfectly empty.

Withdrawing his wand, he reveled in the opportunity to use magic again. The last week of living without it had been a distinctly uncomfortable experience.

He withdrew from the enlarged pouch a piece of parchment. With a muttered spell and flick of his wand, he activated the connection between this and the matching parchment in Dumbledore’s possession. Pulling out a quill, he wrote:

“Headmaster”

He only had to wait a few seconds for Dumbledore’s familiar script to appear below it. The man must have placed a charm upon it to alert him when the connection was reopened.

Aconite. I trust all is well? Aconite was their previously agreed–upon codename for Severus, just as Snitch was their codename for Potter.

“Yes. The Snitch is safe.”

Excellent.

“Is the Ministry amenable?”

No. Snitch must remain flying.

Severus cursed. So Dumbledore had been unable to overturn the verdict. “Should it be moved to a different pitch?”

A pause, then, How quickly can the Aconite be delivered to Hogwarts?

Severus hastily wrote, “Now,” and turned on the spot.

Apparating to just outside the castle wards, Severus hastened across the grounds and entered the castle. The walk from the entrance hall to the Headmaster's office was a long one, but Severus moved quickly. He didn't like leaving Potter wandless, amongst muggles, any longer than necessary. Even though Severus had waited until the teen was under cover to leave, he still had no defenses besides secrecy.

No password was required at this time of year. Severus, uncontent to wait for the magical staircase to carry him to the top, leapt up two steps at a time.

He was slightly out of breath when he knocked perfunctorily upon the door before entering without waiting for a response.

"Severus," greeted the Headmaster warmly. "Your haste is appreciated." 

"What has happened?"

The man wasted no time. "We fear that the Order has been compromised."

Severus sat down abruptly, paling. "Who?"

"We've no idea," Dumbledore said. It might be true, it might not. Severus knew that Dumbledore completely trusted him—that was proven, if not already, when he entrusted Potter's safety to him—but the man often chose to keep his secrets close. Severus had long ago become accustomed to doing things without knowing why. It was simply the way war worked. Potter would learn that as well, if he was studying the book Severus had assigned him like he ought. "But I fear that you may have been compromised."

Severus froze, then glanced at his arm where the Dark Mark lay concealed by his sleeve. "I have not been summoned. Surely the Dark Lord would have called me if he knew I had betrayed him."

"We believe Tom may be planning to feed false information to us through you."

Severus cursed again. "What am I to do?"

"I think, my boy, that it is time you took another role in this war."

"Stop spying?" Severus grasped the arms of his chair, feeling the world tilt underneath him. For so long, his entire life had revolved around one thing, one goal. His purpose suddenly ripped away from him, he fought to remain collected. From the way Dumbledore was watching him, he knew it hadn't completely worked. "What if we're wrong? What if the Dark Lord does not know?"

"My boy," Dumbledore said, lacing his fingers together. "Remember why you became a spy in the first place."

Severus looked away. He didn't want to remember.

"Remember the promise you gave me."

How could he not? He had been reminded every time he looked into Lily's green eyes during the past week spent with Potter. "Yes," he said slowly, beginning to suspect where the Headmaster was going with this. 

"As invaluable as the information you’ve been able to provide us has been, I believe that you can now best serve by protecting Harry. I very much doubt that he will be able to return to school in two weeks. As I cannot take him to Headquarters if there is indeed a traitor in our midst, he will have to stay in some unknown location. Is there any chance that Voldemort will find him at your current hideout?”

Severus cleared his throat. “I hesitate to deal in absolutes, so I will not say that it is impossible; however, it is very unlikely.”

“And you will be there, to protect him?” Dumbledore was watching him closely, and Severus felt himself to be standing at the edge of a precipice. He could refuse, rant and rave about how he couldn’t stand the teen, and the Headmaster would place Harry with Lupin or some other friend. Perhaps he would set up a place for Sirius Black to live, disguised, with Harry. Severus could refuse. The Headmaster probably expected him to.

Then he thought about green eyes, filled with pain, silently asking for help when the teen woke from another blasted nightmare. He thought about the silent shadow who’d followed him for days, uncomplaining, as they walked for miles and camped in the open. He thought about a mop of unruly black hair poking out above a blanket on the couch. He thought about the plans he’d started making about tutoring him in defense and strategy.

“I will,” he said simply, feeling as though he had just leapt head-first off of the precipice, only to land safely.

Dumbledore smiled, and his eyes seemed to grow brighter. Severus knew that he was about to say something about his bravery, or loyalty, or some other nonsense about learning to grow and change. Not wanting to hear it, he stood. “Perhaps an emergency portkey directly to this office would not be amiss, should Potter need to escape and I am incapacitated?”

The Headmaster nodded, and they set up a portkey while discussing the finer details of the new arrangement. It was only designed to carry one person, in case an attacker attempted to grab hold of the boy as it was activated. Severus would have left it at that, but the older man had set up another as well for Severus to use.

“If you should need it,” Dumbledore said, pressing it into his hands, and Severus swallowed past a lump in his throat. There had occasionally been moments over the years when Dumbledore had expressed some sort of paternal affection for the younger man, and Severus never quite knew how to react when it happened. He only nodded, slipping the portkey into an inner pocket.

As he moved to leave the office, Dumbledore’s voice spoke up. “Severus.” 

The Potions Master turned to meet the piercing blue eyes watching him. “Yes, Headmaster?”

“Sometimes, what seems to be a trial in our life will prove to become a blessing.”

Severus only nodded and left the office. One more stop before he could return.

Harry partially woke when he heard the sound of the door opening. He left his eyes closed, feeling too warm and comfortable to move. He tried to fall asleep again, but Snape’s voice made his ears perk up.

“Amy. Thank you. You didn’t need to stay the whole time.”

“Nonsense.” Harry heard the slight squeaking of springs when she rose from the armchair. “Any luck?”

“I’m afraid not,” Snape sighed. He sounded tired. Harry wondered if it was because of the conversation with Dumbledore, or just an act.

“Henry’s been dozing on and off since you left. I had him eat lunch. There’s leftovers on the table there for you.”

“It is appreciated.”

Mrs. Duncan’s voice grew clearer, and Harry knew she had turned her face to look at him. “His sleep was restless.”

“Was it?” Snape sounded concerned now.

“Yes.” Mrs. Duncan’s voice was thoughtful. “One of these days, you’ll have to tell me what happened on that boat.”

Her footsteps faded away as she walked to the door and opened it. The sounds of the street outside trickled in before she was gone and closed the door behind her.

“I know you’re not asleep.”

Harry opened his eyes and sat up slightly to find Snape watching him.

“Did you have another vision?”

Harry shook his head. He didn’t remember his dreams this time. “No. I did finish the first chapter, though.”

Snape picked up The Art of War and tugged Harry’s notes free from between the pages. After a moment of reading, he said, “Choleric-ness is not a word, Potter,” but continued scanning the paper. Apparently finished, he tucked the page back into the book and set it down.

He didn’t say anything else about his notes, but that included a lack of mean remarks, so Harry understood that he’d done well.

He felt a small glow of pride that he’d done well enough that even Snape couldn’t find fault with it (except the nonexistent word), a feeling quickly snuffed out when Snape said, “Next chapter.”

The man walked over to the table to investigate the leftovers of the shepard’s pie Mrs. Duncan had brought over.

“Sir?”

Snape grunted, taking down a plate from the cupboard, which Harry took as permission to continue. “What happened with Dumbledore? Are we going back to Headquarters?”

“Professor Dumbledore, Potter.  School is not in session, but that does not excuse your disrespect.” He dished out a serving and found a fork in the drawer to the left of the sink. “And no, we are not.”

Harry frowned. He wasn’t as desperate to get away from Snape as he’d thought he would be, but he still wanted to return to Grimmauld Place. Didn’t he?

Sure, he’d been angry at his friends for not telling him anything while he was at Privet Drive, but he’d been miserable over the past few days. He’d been so worried about getting expelled or arrested that he’d been willing to forgive them, because having the chance to do so in person would mean he’d at least be safe at Headquarters. Besides, his readings had made him realize that there were actually important reasons for their silence, and he didn’t blame them anymore. Getting this close to being dragged off who-knows-where by the Ministry tended to put things in perspective.

“Oh,” he said, unsure of which thought to voice aloud, or even if he should.

Snape sat down across from him and began eating, and Harry remembered that his professor hadn’t had any breakfast. “There has been a change of plans. You and I will remain in this village for the foreseeable future.”

“What!” Harry said, standing up. Snape only gave him a dry look, however, so Harry blushed slightly and sat back down. Harry had a million questions, but the first one that popped out was, “What about Potions classes?”

Snape looked at him as if wondering why on earth that was Harry’s first question. Harry didn’t know either, so he just shrugged.

“A temporary stand-in will be found. Perhaps my old professor, Horace Slughorn.” His lip curled slightly at the name, but Harry didn’t dare interrupt to ask what was wrong with the suggestion. “Another Order member will use Polyjuice to impersonate me in public a couple of times until school starts in hopes of preventing anyone from connecting our disappearances.”

Harry guessed that made sense. He remembered Ron and fought the sudden smile that came across his face. He could only imagine his friend’s excitement when he learned that Snape wasn’t going to be teaching Potions.

“You will not be returning to school, but do not think that will mean a break from your schoolwork.” The professor paused eating long enough to pull out the impossible pouch. When book after book was placed on the table, Harry fought to keep his dismay at bay. “I will be monitoring your progress and assigning you homework.”

Harry eyed the books on the table. All of the required reading from the lists sent home were there—minus the Defensive Theory that the DADA professor had assigned, thank Merlin—plus several others about real defense, wards, potions, the mental arts, and the detection and breaking of curses.

“You will be doing any summer assignments that you didn’t complete yet. Any half-finished drafts are still at Headquarters, so you will need to restart those ones.”

As almost all of Harry’s homework was half-done, he scowled.

“When those are complete, you will study your school subjects during the day and at least an hour of the supplementary reading each evening. Any misbehavior on your part will result in more assignments.”

When Snape got up to clean his now-empty plate, Harry allowed his shoulders to slump. “Does that hour include The Art of War?”

“Yes.” The sound of running water as Snape turned on the tap, then: “There will be rules, Potter.”

Harry stiffened. That was never good. That sort of statement was always followed by a new verdict of his aunt or uncle’s that would result in some new misery for Harry. There were always strict, stupid rules at his relatives, and the consequences for breaking those rules didn’t bear thinking about.

“First of all, if I hear of you getting into any fights with other kids in the village, I will not be happy.” Wait, did that mean Harry could go out? He’d expected to practically be under house arrest. “Curfew is sundown. I am not opposed to your interacting with other village members, but you must be extremely cautious about what you tell people. There must be no doubt in anyone’s mind that we are who we pretend to be. In addition, you will always be respectful. Do not create a bad reputation for either of us.”

“I wouldn’t do that, sir,” Harry said quietly, thinking about how Snape didn’t know him at all. The last thing he ever wanted to do was act like Dudley, cause any trouble, or bring attention to himself. That was one good thing about staying here: no one knew him as Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. He was just another person, no different from anybody else.

“See that you do not. You will complete all work I assign you, and you will do so without complaint. I believe you know how tolerant I am of disrespect.”

Not at all tolerant.

“You will clean up after yourself. I am not Molly Weasley. You will keep your belongings neat. I am not here to cater to you.”

Ha! As if Harry would ask anything of Snape. He hadn’t even told the man about his wrists, or complained once during their hike. Hadn’t the man figured him out yet?

“I hope you’re listening, Potter. The consequences of disobedience will not be pleasant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Repeat what I have told you.”

Harry did, finding the rules not all that terrible. Besides the large amount of studying he was expected to do, Harry would have said that the weeks ahead of him might even turn out to be pleasant if Snape were not the one trapped here with him. When he finished listing the rules, he added, “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want to be stuck here like this.”

Snape only said, “It’s for the war effort, Potter.”

Harry would wonder for the rest of the day why that answer had stung.

Harry’s hand cramped slightly, but he didn’t mind. After all, he was the one who’d decided to trace out all of the runic combinations for different wards onto a separate sheet of paper so he could remember them better. There were several different types of wards; like personal, object, spacial, and property. Snape had explained the mechanics of this a bit, and Harry had noticed for himself that the type of ward affected the shape of the rune alignment. Object wards, like the one on the pendants he and Snape wore, were shaped in a basic pentagram. More complicated wards, however, like those placed on properties, had more points. He imagined how many points lay on the wards surrounding Hogwarts. There were several different wards on the castle, like anti-apparition and one to make it invisible to Muggles. The purpose of the ward determined the type of runes within the basic shape arrangement.

The door opened, and Harry’s head snapped up, hand prepared to tuck the pages out of sight if it was Mrs. Duncan. She normally knocked now that they were officially staying here, but he had been told to always be cautious. It was only Snape, however, so he relaxed.

“Continue,” Snape said, walking past him to where his bed was hidden by the privacy screens. Harry knew it was to change clothing before eating dinner.

Over the past week, they’d settled into a sort of routine. Snape had begun working at the local fish processing place, and came back everyday smelling of saltwater and seafood. Harry couldn't even imagine his proud professor standing at a counter cleaning fish all day; but he supposed that, if you turned off your brain and just worked, it'd kind of be like preparing potions ingredients. Snape had explained to Harry that this was necessary to get money to pay rent for their cottage, which was owned by Mr. and Mrs. Duncan, and to make them “active participants in the community”. Harry was supposed to act, at least for the first week, like he was recovering from a cold. Mrs. Duncan came by every day for an hour or so, but since he wasn't sure he could pull off a fake illness that long, he mostly just slept during her visits.

For the first four days of this new routine, Harry spent most of the time Snape was gone plowing through his summer homework. Now that was finally done, and he had negotiated with Snape to let him have the rest of August off from the regular classes, since it was summer. So, Harry would start dinner and have it ready by the time Snape returned, finishing the hour of extra work at the kitchen table while things simmered.

Snape emerged from the privacy screen wearing black muggle jeans and a nondescript grey shirt. Harry did his best not to stare, but even after a week, he found it incredibly strange to see his professor in anything but teaching robes.

Snape walked to the pot on the stove and lifted the lid for a peek at its contents.

"I know you're probably tired of fish," Harry said, "but there's some vegetables and herbs in it too."

Snape looked back at him. He replaced the lid on the stew and sat across from him. Rubbing his forehead as if he had a headache, he asked, "What are you working on?"

Silently, Harry turned the page to face Snape and slid it forward. The man picked up the paper and scanned Harry's diagrams of wards and the notes beside each. “How much more have you read of The Art of War?”

“I’ve read chapters two and three, ‘Waging War’ and ‘Attack by Stratagem’.” He handed over the book, which was underneath the warding guide. Snape found the notes and read through them.

Harry stood and checked on the stew. It seemed to be ready, so he brought down two bowls and ladled out some for each of them. He placed a bowl and spoon in front of Snape, who began idly eating as he read.

“Not terrible,” Snape admitted, returning the notes. “Although you might want to curb some of your more… colorful phrases.”

Harry tried, and failed, not to smirk. They discussed the first two chapters over dinner, although Harry thought that Snape seemed strangely quiet. Maybe he was just tired? 

“Are you alright, sir?” Harry asked quietly. A week ago, he would have hesitated to ask that. A month before then, and he couldn’t have cared less.

Snape looked at him oddly, as if he thought it was a strange question. Harry wondered how often people asked or cared about how Snape felt. Besides maybe Dumbledore, he couldn’t think of a single person that seemed to enjoy the man’s company. “Of course.” He set down his spoon, however, and looked at Harry very seriously. “I have been thinking about your scar.”

“What about it?” Harry asked nervously.

“These visions are… disturbing.”

Harry flushed. He’d had another scar pain that morning before Snape left for work, and finally admitted that he was also dreaming about empty corridors every few nights. “I’m not going crazy, sir.”

“I never said you were, Potter,” Snape said. There was the crisp tone Harry was used to. He might have been reassured if there wasn’t an underlying note of exhaustion. “I do not believe these dreams are your own; frankly, that would be preferable.” He looked at Harry intently then, as if sizing him up, before stating, “I believe it is imperative that you learn Occlumency.”

Harry shifted in his seat. He’d practiced his meditation on his own every day since Snape had taught it to him, but Occlumency itself was a different thing to learn. He’d flipped through the book on Mental Arts, scanning the section about Occlumency because he was curious about it. It required a close connection between student and mentor, and he couldn’t imagine sharing all of his secrets with anyone, Snape certainly included. They might get along better now by necessity, but that didn’t mean Harry was okay with baring his soul.

“However, it will be difficult to learn here, as I cannot cast a wanded Legillimens near you without alerting the trace.”

“Oh no,” Harry murmured, not in the least distressed. Snape raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. “So how do we start?”

Snape tilted his head at Harry, as if studying him. After a long moment, he said slowly, “This is new to me. I have never taught Occlumency to a student. If I had the choice, I would certainly not do so in these conditions.”

Harry was surprised by Snape’s candidness. He leaned forward slightly, sensing that whatever Snape was going to say, it would not be words lightly spoken.

“We will both be learning as we go. I ask that you be patient, but tell me if you feel that something is not helping you.”

Harry was practically floored as Snape got up to clean his bowl. Since when did Snape do anything but demand participation, much less ask his students to work with him rather than for him.

Spurred by this strange move toward cooperation, Harry decided to dry dishes while Snape washed. The man glanced at him in acknowledgement when he picked up a towel and rubbed down the clean bowl laying face-down on the towel near the sink but didn’t say anything. They worked together silently until the dishes were done.

Snape turned to him. “I assume you know how to play chess?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry blinked. Snape beckoned him toward the sitting area and brought over a chess board from the bookshelf. When the man handed Harry the white pieces, he set up his side of the board.

“Chess,” Snape began, in his lecturing voice, “is a game of strategy. Remember your notes on The Art of War. Deception, Potter. Deception is everything. Your opponent cannot counteract your strategy if he does not know what it is. Seem near when you are far and far when you are near.”

“But you can see all of my pieces,” Harry objected.

“As you can see mine.” Snape gave him a look, as if asking Harry to please stop being so thick. “Do not think of it so literally. Draw attention away from your strengths. Set traps by looking weak.”

Harry rubbed his nose. “Ron’s much better at all of that than me.”

“Mr. Weasley is not the one hunted by a homicidal maniac with a superiority complex and a fanatical following.”

“And Voldemort. Don't forget he's after me, too,” Harry quipped.

Snape snorted. “Just go.”

Grinning, Harry pushed a pawn forward.

The next few moves were made in silence. Harry was trying to think up a good strategy when Snape asked, “Where did you learn to cook like that?”

Harry knocked over the piece he was moving and righted it hurriedly. “Sir?”

“In my experience, most teenage boys do not know how to properly use basil and caraway seeds together in a stew.” Snape moved a piece idly, and gameplay continued.

Harry shrugged. The Dursleys hadn’t much liked spices or herbs in their food, preferring it bland and plentiful rather than deliberate and measured. Still, he’d experimented over the summers. He hadn’t really put much thought into tonight’s meal. It had just seemed simple. He’d been trying to make the taste of fish bearable for a man who had spent all day with them and was probably sick of it. “How could you tell what was in it? I didn’t overdo it, did I?”

Snape shook his head. “Cooking and potions, I find, are very similar.” He left it there, leading Harry to surmise that the man enjoyed cooking to some extent.

“I don’t know. I just threw stuff in there,” Harry said casually, realizing that Snape had maneuvered a knight for a trap and avoiding it.

“With accuracy, apparently.” Snape didn’t look put-out that Harry had sussed out one of his probably numerous traps. “Instinct is honed by experience. When have you ever had much chance to cook?” There was slight derision in his voice, and Harry bristled.

“My relatives had me cook all the time!”

“Did they?” Snape asked mildly, tapping his lip with a finger and looking up at Harry.

Suddenly aware that they had somehow gotten on the track of his relatives, Harry cleared his throat. “Not overly-complicated or anything.”

“Hm.”

Harry fidgeted, wondering if the man was going to say anything else about the Dursleys. Made uncomfortable by the silence, he said, “I didn’t mind it that much. There’s worse chores.”

“Such as?”

“Well, who likes weeding in the summer heat?” Harry asked, feeling defensive. “But someone’s gotta do it.”

“Is that someone always you?”

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t approve. You know, hard work and all that.”

“I never said something was wrong with it,” Snape said, raising an eyebrow at him, and Harry felt a bit stupid. “Is there?”

Why all the questions? Snape wasn’t the sort of man Harry thought enjoyed idle conversation, and asking questions was only encouraging more talk. “Of course not.”

“Of course,” Snape murmured.

Harry looked down at the board, not really seeing it. Why would Snape be asking all of these questions? This was Occlumency prep, wasn’t it? Maybe the man was trying to foster the “student-mentor” trust. Clearly he’s not very good at it, Harry thought grumpily, since all he felt right now was defensive.

“Checkmate.”

Harry peered closer at the board and realized that he hadn’t been paying proper attention to the game because of the conversation. He frowned, internally scolding himself for letting Snape distract him. That, in itself, was no doubt a not-so-subtle lesson in and of itself.

“It is still early. We will take a break. The rest of the lesson will occur before you go to sleep.”

Harry guessed that made sense, since he was supposed to be Occluding his dreams to prevent another vision. “Can I go out?”

“Is it dark out?” Snape asked, not looking up as he gathered up the board.

“No…” Harry said, glancing out the window.

“Then what do you think?” Snape asked, standing up straight.

Harry remembered the rule about curfew at sunset. “Yes?”

“Is that an answer or a question?” Snape rolled his eyes and shooed him away with a hand gesture. “Get out of here, Potter.”

“Yes, sir.” Harry smiled and left the cottage.

It was the first time Harry had really been out in the village since they’d arrived. Today was the last day of Harry's scheduled "illness", and he was glad to finally stretch his legs and get outside

He started down a small side path that headed in the direction of running water. Snape had explained to him how they got electricity from a water mill and Harry was mildly curious to see it.

He emerged onto a main lane when a football rolled past his feet. Not very experienced at Muggle sports, since Dudley had always done his best to make sure Harry never got to participate, he let the boy chasing it to pass him and stop it with his foot.

The boy turned to look at him, and Harry thought that he was probably around Harry’s own age. “Fit like?”

Harry blinked. “Huh?”

The teen easily kicked the ball straight up into the air and caught it, tucking it under his left arm and reaching out with his right hand. “I’m Callum.”

“Henry,” Harry said. 

The boy—Callum—smiled. “Me aunt Amy told me about you. I guess you’re feelin’ better, then?”

Harry nodded. Deciding to steer the conversation away from himself so he wouldn’t need to go too deep into the cover story, he asked, “You on a team?”

Callum looked confused, then his face cleared and he held up the football. “Nah. Not enough kids around here. Besides us two, there’s only one other teen in the village, a seventeen year old named Mary. She used to play with me a few years ago, but not so much anymore.” He rolled his eyes and put on a false high voice. “Oh, I can’t! I’m meeting my wonderful boyfriend on the island today.” His tone dropped back to its normal pitch. “She’s away most of the time now.” He dropped the ball and bopped it on his knee. “What about you?”

Most of what Harry knew about football involved stuff that Dean said in the dorm room. He shrugged. “I’ve never played.”

“Really? Wanna try?”

Harry hesitated, then grinned. He’d expected to find living in the village a bit lonely, but it seemed like there was someone he could hang out with. It helped lessen the sting of not being able to see Ron or Hermione. “Yeah, I do.”

They walked down to the beach, where there was more room to move around. They kicked the ball back and forth a few times until Harry understood the rhythm of the movement before drawing lines in the sand for goals and playing for real. Callum  beat him, although Harry suspected that the other boy had gone easy on him since he was supposed to be recovering from getting sick. The sun had almost set before Harry said he had to get back home. “My dad said I can’t be out past dark.” He stumbled slightly over the term “dad”, having rarely used it, but Callum didn’t appear to notice. The word felt strange in his mouth.

“My mum says the same,” Callum rolled his eyes, and the two started walking back to the village. “Like there’s anything out here to get us.”

Callum walked with him to the cottage. Harry was surprised to see Snape sitting on a chair on the narrow porch out front, clearly waiting for him.

“It’s weird to have someone living here again,” Callum said.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

Callum’s face turned serious. “My cousin and her husband used to live here. She was Aunt Amy’s daughter, Yvaine. After they got married, they rented the cottage from Aunt Amy for seven months before they were killed in a freak boat accident two years ago. It’s been empty ever since, although Aunt Amy has kept it clean and everything. She never had the heart to get rid of any of their things.”

Harry thought about the clothes in Snape’s wardrobe and the books on the shelves and felt slightly ill. Something about the thought of them just waiting there, unused, as if ready for Yvaine and her husband to come back at any moment even though they never would was unsettling. He wondered if Snape knew.

They reached the porch and Snape stood. “Hello.”

“Hello, Mr. Paine. I’m Callum.”

“Amy’s nephew.”

Callum nodded then waved goodbye to Harry as he wandered back down the road, presumably headed towards his own house. Snape opened the door for Harry, who walked inside with a slight reluctance.

“Did you know? About Mrs. Duncan’s daughter?”

“Yes, I did.” Snape shut the door and motioned towards the kitchen table. “It has come to my attention that you need clothes.”

Clothes?? He’d been wearing items from the wardrobe, just like Snape. They were too large on him, but that was hardly a first for Harry. At least they weren’t holey rags given to him because they weren’t fit to be seen on Dudley. “S-sir?”

“Those don’t fit you,” Snape said shortly. “I have tomorrow off. We’ll visit the general shop.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. He felt that it was really unnecessary. He knew Snape wasn’t making a whole lot of money, and that most of it was going towards food and rent. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Snape sat and looked at Harry, slightly cross. “I am here to keep you safe. That encompasses providing for your basic needs. Now sit.”

Harry sat woodenly. For some reason, he was feeling a bit upset. Perhaps it was because Snape’s prodding into his home life earlier had brought the Dursleys to mind, but he thought about how his own family hadn’t bothered to keep him well-fed or clothed from their comfortable salary at home when Snape was working long, exhausting hours just so they could have somewhere to sleep and yet still was talking about buying him clothes. How come his professor, a man who hated him, was doing more to look after him than his own family?

It wasn’t right.

“Really, I’m okay,” Harry said, as if refusing Snape’s kindness would make his family better people. “Clothes are expensive anyways, and…”

“Harry,” Snape said, and the exhaustion on his face was more evident than it had been all day. Harry shut up, silenced by the novelty of hearing his first name coming from Snape. He didn’t think he’d ever heard him use it like that before.

Snape, too, seemed just as surprised. He paused, cleared his throat, and said, “Do not worry about the money.”

Harry, anxious that he’d offended the man by implying that he couldn’t provide, only nodded.

“Now, Occlumency.” Snape began. “To protect your mind from intrusion, you must be able to navigate it. Not knowing your own mind will make it impossible for you to structure it and form a defense.”

I’m doomed. From his confusion over Snape and his anxieties about school and his future to his nightmares about Cedric and the graveyard, Harry’s mind was pretty much a mess most of the time these days.

“The meditation you have been doing will help greatly in learning to discipline your mind and teach it to follow the paths you want it to go down. This will help you organize it and learn how to shape it to your will. When you achieve mastery of this discipline, you will be able to direct an invader’s mind down the paths you want within your own, where you will have control of the encounter and neither be injured nor have your memories and thoughts compromised.”

“You mean if I achieve mastery,” Harry said lightly, trying to make Snape a little less serious.

“No, Potter. I mean when. You must go into these lessons with the mindset that you will succeed, because you don’t have a choice. You cannot allow this connection to the Dark Lord to continue unchecked. You make yourself a security risk as well as vulnerable to his manipulations.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Recall our chess game, and your readings. Deception.”

“Deception.”

“Deception. As I was saying, you will learn to create pathways in your mind: tunnels of safe, nonsense memories down which you can direct a Legillimens. The more intricate and in-depth your mind maze is, the more chance you have of deceiving an attacker.”

“Wow. Okay, that’s…” a lot. “Good. So, how do I do that? Make a mind maze?”

“That is the ultimate goal. Not today’s lesson. Now, the first step to organizing your thoughts is to sort out your emotions.”

Harry couldn’t help it. He snorted a little, quickly covering it with his hand. When Snape narrowed his eyes in question, he said, “Sorry. Just… good luck with that.”

“Harry.”

Harry stilled, hand dropping forgotten to his lap. The first time Snape had said that, it had been a mistake. A slip-up. This time, however, there was too much deliberateness in Snape’s face and voice.

“You will need to trust me at least a little for this to work. You have to be willing to confide at least a part of what you are thinking and feeling to me so I can coach you through this. Occlumency is almost impossible to learn without a mentor or guide.”

Harry looked into Snape's face and wondered if he could trust anyone that much.

“I… will try,” Harry said slowly, not sure that he hadn’t just made a terrible mistake.

Snape sighed and rested his chin on hand. “That will have to do for now.”

Harry took a deep breath. “So how do I start?”

“Begin by meditating.”

Harry waited a moment to see if Snape would add any additional instructions. Seeing that none were forthcoming, he closed his eyes and began counting his breaths.

When he felt sufficiently calm and his mind cleared, he opened his eyes while maintaining the peace.

“Good.” Snape sat up with an effort. “What do you feel right now?”

“Calm.”

“What emotions or thoughts did you have to ignore to reach the meditation state?”

“Shouldn’t I be trying to not remember them?”

“You need to address them and put them to rest in your mind if you truly wish to do so.”

Harry looked away. After a moment, he said softly, “I kept thinking about clothes.” He waited, but Snape didn’t make a sarcastic comment about materialistic Harry Potter, obsessed with clothes and money. In fact, Snape didn’t say anything at all. He couldn’t bear to look up at the man, but the silence seemed to force him to continue. “And my relatives.”

The silence continued to stretch. He braved a glance at Snape, who at least didn’t appear derisive. He looked away again, staring out the window. The sun had set, but no one had drawn the curtains, and he could see a few stars dotting the sky above the roofs of buildings. “They never took me clothes shopping.” As soon as he said it, he blushed. Why was he talking about the Dursleys to Snape? Like the man cared.

But it wasn’t about Snape, was it? It was about Harry admitting what bothered him.

Bolstered by the idea that the professor didn’t really care about what Harry was saying, the teen found it easier to keep talking. 

“They never bought me new things at all. I got hand-me-downs from Dudley. My cousin,” he clarified, not sure how much Snape knew about his relatives. “He was a bit bigger… okay, a lot bigger than me, and the first set of clothes that I remember fitting me perfectly were my school robes from first year.” There was more he could have said about the Dursleys, but it all amounted to the same thing. They didn’t, and never would, care about him. So he moved on to how it made him ‘feel’ or whatever. “I wouldn’t have cared if they couldn’t afford it. I’m not a prig, whatever you might think. It’s just that they never bothered. And, I guess…” his voice broke, and he hated himself for it, “when you said you were gonna buy me clothes, it made me mad, because that the kind of thing they should have done, but they never did, even though family is supposed to take care of you.” 

That’s why he’d always considered his friends as his family. They took care of him, like family does. But now Snape was looking after him. That didn’t make Snape family… did it? No. That was crazy. Snape only did it because he was ordered to. He’d even told Harry that it was for the war effort. 

Too caught up in the confusion of brand-new questions and old hurts, he stopped talking.

When Snape finally spoke and interrupted his thoughts, Harry thought that his voice was oddly rough. “I think that’s enough for tonight. I know it’s early, but you should go to bed. Meditate until you fall asleep.” He didn’t say anything about trying to let go of the hurts he had just expressed, as if he knew that was hardly an issue that could be addressed in one conversation. He merely steered Harry towards the couch. After the impromptu football game and that mentally draining conversation, he felt exhausted despite the fact that he usually went to bed later than this and allowed the man to gently push him to sit on the couch. He grabbed the blanket and stretched out of his volition. Snape flicked off the lamp on the side table near his head so that the only other light in the room came from the overhead light in the kitchen. That, too, was soon turned off, and Harry heard the sound of the curtain over the sink being closed. The man left the cottage shortly, probably to use the outhouse, and Harry began to meditate.

The last thought he had to push out of his mind before the focused calm settled over his mind like a blanket was that, even if Snape had been ordered to take care of him, he wasn’t doing too bad a job of it.

Feeling like he’d just been run over by a hippogriff, Severus waited until Potter’s breath had lost the measured quality of meditation and gained the deeper sound of sleep before taking out the parchment to communicate with the Headmaster. He was seated on the side of his bed, using the lamp and nightstand next to it to write so that the privacy screen would block the light from interrupting Potter’s much needed rest. 

“Did you know?”

Albus, unsurprisingly, was still awake. Has something occurred, Aconite?

“Nothing is currently amiss. Did you know?”

Know what?

“That the Snitch grew up unloved and neglected?”

The space below his angry scratch remained empty for a long moment that, to Severus, said more than any words could. As if sensing this, the elegant script below finally spelled out a single word. Yes.

Severus stared at the word for as long as it had taken to appear. He slowly set down the fountain pen that he’d been using, knowing that there was nothing more he could write at the moment. The parchment was not intended for a long rant about the past, and as much as Severus wanted to confront the Headmaster about that tiny, damning word, this was not the way to do it.

He cradled his head in his hands after shoving the parchment away. He’d begun to suspect, of course, that all was not right. Had been convinced by the time they had that little conversation about cooking during the chess game and Potter had gotten the wild, trapped look of a caged animal whenever his relatives came up. The instant defensiveness. Several different things the teen had done flashed through his mind, a new light shining through the shredding veil Severus appeared to have placed over his own eyes in regards to the child. 

The lack of communication with adults whenever he was in danger, a bad habit that had led him into peril alone more than once. That was no wonder if he had never been given a reason to trust adults in his short life. The fierce loyalty to his friends, probably his first and only friends. The disregard for the value of his own life, and the lack of expectation for someone to treat his injuries. The small frame. 

The flinching. Oh, God, the flinching. Severus realized that his hands were trembling and tucked them under his thighs, head bent, hair falling in front of his face.

Maybe he was mistaken? Severus had drawn false conclusions about the teen before. Maybe this was another one. Even as he thought it, however, he knew it wasn’t a mistake. Those false conclusions had been assumptions based on what he expected. This new fear was based on evidence gathered from behaviors he himself had witnessed.

It had been a long day. He’d found that working in the fish shop wasn’t horrible. The smell was no worse than some of the ingredients he’d prepared over the years, and his Cokeworth heritage kept his pride from getting in the way. Before he was Professor Snape, resident Potions Master at Hogwarts, he had been Severus Snape, a scrappy halfblood from a rough muggle neighborhood without a penny to his name. He held no distaste towards the concept of working for a living. As he’d explained to Potter, working in the village also created a permanence for the two of them in the community. Still, he never regretted leaving the place at the end of the workday. Coming home to face several difficult conversations hadn’t been easy either, and he’d even felt it necessary to cut the Occlumency lesson short.

Realizing with a start that he’d thought of the cottage as home, Severus turned out the light and stretched out in an attempt to sleep. He scowled at himself. The last thing he needed was to get… attached. To this place. To this peace. Yes, there was no magic here, but at the same time, there were no expectations. The extent of his tasks regarding the war amounted to one thing: protect Potter. Even that was easier than he’d initially anticipated. The teen was largely independent. Severus merely needed to prompt him towards an assignment or task, and the child seemed to do it affably enough. 

If he were a better man, Severus would be guilty for enjoying this reprieve from the war and the demands of both his masters. As it was, he was able to fall asleep with little on his mind other than what he’d just learned about a teen who was beginning to surprise him on the regular.

“Every morning-!” Severus groaned, shoving a pillow over his face. It did little to block the noise, however, so he gave up on trying to fall back asleep. Unwilling to get out of the warm covers, however, he lay staring up at the ceiling. The room was slowly lightening from the early morning light creeping out behind the edges of the curtains.

“Who is that?” Potter mumbled from the couch, voice thick with sleep.

“I have not yet inquired,” Severus replied tiredly, wondering how badly the villagers might react if the morning piper mysteriously disappeared one day.

Several chickens outside began clucking and making a fuss as a woman outside screamed inarticulately, a sound of pure rage. Severus sympathized.

After another fifteen minutes, the music stopped, and Severus dredged up the willpower to get out of bed. Potter had his face buried in the cushions of the sofa, and Severus thought he had actually managed to fall asleep again until a muffled voice asked, “Is it over?”

“Yes, I think so,” Severus said in amusement. The teen allowed himself to roll over and off of the sofa, landing on his back on the floor. The despondent look on his face was truly melodrama at its finest.

“I’ll make breakfast,” the teen sighed, not moving.

Severus raised an eyebrow at that, surprised that Potter would bring up cooking when it had seemed such a sore subject yesterday. “If you wish. I, personally, have no desire to eat so early.”

“Me neither,” Potter said, closing his eyes.

Severus moved around the cottage, opening the curtains around the room and quickly changing into fresh clothes behind the privacy screen. He went outside briefly to use the facilities. By the time he returned, Potter had not moved from the floor.

Deciding to leave him be, Severus picked up a book he’d been reading and sat in an armchair. He tried to focus, but every so often he found himself glancing at the teen on the floor.

Part of the reason he found the teen’s gratitude for the offer of new clothes so disturbing was that Severus himself considered letting an entire week go by before addressing the issue as a serious oversight on his part. In fact, he hadn’t even noticed how vagabond Potter looked until he’d seen him walking side by side with that other boy, Callum, and noticed the comparison. An entire week of seeing the teen daily and not noticing that his clothes didn’t even fit was hardly a point in Severus’ favor, and yet the child seemed deeply touched that he’d noticed at all.

“You could read the next chapter in The Art of War,” Severus suggested.

Potter looked up, vaguely reached towards the book which was most definitely out of his reach, then gave up.

Severus rolled his eyes and easily picked up the book. He set aside his own, knowing he wouldn’t be able to focus, and flipped through the pages of Sun Tzu’s famous military treaty. “Where did you leave off?” He knew perfectly well where Potter had left off, but was curious if the teen remembered without looking.

“Chapter Four, Tactical Dispositions,” Potter recited.

Severus didn’t respond, only handed the notes that were tucked between the pages like always down to the boy. “Are you going to stay on the floor?”

“Yes,” Potter said, rising to his feet and sitting back down on the couch. Severus pursed his lips but didn’t say anything about it.

“Sun Tzu said, the good fighters of old first-”

“You’re reading it aloud?”

Severus raised an eyebrow. “Objection?”

“N-no,” came the stuttered reply, so Severus went back to the book. 

“Five annotations per chapter, Potter. -first put themselves beyond the possibility of defeat, and then waited for an opportunity of defeating the enemy. To secure ourselves against defeat lies in our own hands, but the opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.”

It had been a while since Severus had read the book, but he found the advice as practical and applicable as ever. It was truly a shame that more wizards weren’t willing to look past a prejudice against muggles and read it.

As he read, Potter bent his head over the paper and began writing. It was a short chapter, like all the others, and he set it aside when it was finished. Potter finished writing whatever note he was taking before glancing up at the clock. “I’ll start breakfast now.” He handed his notes to Severus, and they discussed them shortly while Potter made an uncomplicated meal. After eating, they waited until the general shop opened (8:30) and walked there with what little extra money Severus had left. He had stopped by to get groceries only two days before, so they didn’t need to worry about food during this trip.

The clothing section was not very large; Severus had heard that most people came here when they needed an item or two, not a full wardrobe. Still, Potter didn’t seem to mind.

In fact, the teen seemed a bit overwhelmed by the small selection. “Select a few shirts, trousers, and underclothes to start,” Severus said, seeing the lost look. Potter blushed, clearly embarrassed, but Severus’ professional tone seemed to spur him to action. He picked a few items, and while Severus noticed that he checked the price tags of all of them, he didn’t say anything. None of the items on stock were of cheap make, so if Potter was more comfortable asking for less expensive clothing, Severus wasn’t going to push it. They were on a bit of a budget.

“Here. Try this on.” Severus tossed a Slytherin-green sweatshirt at him. Potter had turned at the sound of his voice and the sweatshirt landed on his face. He pulled it off, glasses slightly skewed, and glanced at Severus. Amused by the even messier than usual hair and the surprised look on the teen’s face, Severus watched as Potter smiled at him uncertainly. 

Then the teen glanced away, and Severus thought he saw a flash of some intense emotion before the child grinned at him again, slightly cheekily, and switched it with a red one of the same size. Severus huffed, not actually put out.

“I’m pretty sure these will all fit. I don’t need to try them on.”

“Alright,” Severus conceded. “You need a pair of boots, and maybe some trainers.”

Potter sighed but wandered to the shoes. These, too, were limited, but Potter found what he needed easily enough. The dress shoes he’d worn to the trial had been pretty thoroughly demolished by their journey across the countryside, and the spare shoes left behind by Amy’s son-in-law didn’t fit the teen as well as they fit Severus.

He might have been better about concealing it, but Severus shared Potter’s disconcertment at wearing a dead man’s clothes. When they had saved up more, he intended on getting new clothes for himself as well.

Potter needs a bed, also. He shouldn’t have to keep sleeping on the couch.

When they walked up to the counter, an elderly man emerged from a back room. “Ah, the Englishmen. I’d wondered when you would get around to more than groceries.” He nodded at the clothes Potter carried. “Put ‘em up.” Potter dumped them on the counter, flushing when he dropped a package of pants on the floor and hurriedly picked them up. Severus shared a smirk with the man over the boy’s head. “I’m Baird McAuliffe. I suppose this is your son, Henry?”

“That’s him,” Severus said, dropping a hand to Potter’s shoulder. He was pleased when the teen didn’t flinch.

“Is that-?” Potter suddenly asked, embarrassment apparently forgotten as he stared at an item behind the older man. Severus followed his gaze to see a set of bagpipes prominently displayed.

“Aye,” the man said, proudly rocking on his heels. “I suppose you’ve heard me, then?”

“Hard not to,” Severus commented dryly, but McAuliffe didn’t seem offended. He only smiled wider.

“Served in the war, I did. I was there on D-Day when Bill Millin marched back and forth across the beaches of Normandy playin’ Highland Laddie. We could hear him over the sounds of gunfire and dyin’, screamin’ men. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He scanned the last item, but Severus thought that the man’s eyes were far away. “I was a piper, too, but I never played on the front lines. Who would? The War Office had ordered us not to. The snipers liked to pick us off. Still, there was old Bill, playing non stop as he stepped over the bodies of comrades he couldn’t help. Ever since I came home, I’ve played my own pipes over the highlands to remember him. That there’s the same set I used in the war.”

“Did he get shot?” Potter asked, entranced by the story.

The older man laughed slightly. “No, lad. That’s the best part. That’s why he’s called the mad piper. None of the Germans shot him because they thought he’d gone crazy and felt sorry for ‘im. He’s still alive to this day, I believe.”

“Wow,” Potter said, and Severus knew that his reaction was genuine.

They finished the transaction, and McAuliffe announced the total. Severus brought out his muggle wallet, carefully keeping his face neutral when he saw that there would be practically nothing left. The old man must have had some sort of intuition, however, because he said lightly, “I’ll be givin’ ya a discount, though, since you’re new to the village.” He named a lower price, nothing drastic, but certainly a fair decrease. Severus immediately objected.

“There’s no need to give us charity, Mr. McAuliffe,” he said, but the man shook his head.

“It’s not charity. Just a newcomer’s discount. One-time offer. I want you comin’ back, don’t I?” The two men’s gazes met, and Severus saw a quiet determination in the other’s eyes. He wondered what the older man saw in return.

Severus commented on neither the fact that this was not his first transaction at the store, nor that there weren’t any other shops in the village that the man had to compete with for customers. Deciding to accept the man’s generosity, he silently handed over the lower amount. McAuliffe grinned in reply and waved a cheery goodbye.

They left the shop after that, and Severus could tell that Potter was still thinking about the mad piper.

“Sir, why do they have pipers in the army?” he asked.

“I believe it is a point of morale. The bagpipes can be quite inspiring if not used to wake one up before the sun has risen,” Severus replied.

The teen stewed on that for a minute before musing aloud, “That was a point in The Art of War. Morale, I mean. Sun Tzu said that an army united behind a common purpose will fight better together. Morale’s part of that, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” Severus replied, slightly impressed that Potter would make the connection outside of his study period.

“Huh,” Potter said, looking thoughtful.

Harry faced a dilemma. No wonder he was having trouble sorting out his emotions: they didn’t make sense. Because (and it was a shock to learn) he was starting to like Snape. 

Even the thought seemed to border on blasphemy. Life was so simple before this summer. The Dursleys sucked, Voldemort sucked even more, Quidditch was fun, and he hated Snape. This final dogma of his adolescent life had carried him through three days of trekking across country, but was now the point of one of his life’s greatest personal mysteries.

What was even worse was that Harry couldn’t even pin the change one, two, or even ten deep, honest conversations. There was no single instance in which Snape acted in a certain way or explained himself to Harry that made the teen able to understand or like him better. No distinct event had occurred to alter his once firm foundation of hate for Severus Snape. No, it had nothing to do with soul-baring confessions or life-altering revelations; somehow, the thing had occurred over the course of a thousand small kindnesses. Little acts, casually done so neither of them noticed too much, but which somehow imprinted themselves on Harry. If his prior experiences with adults hadn’t been as dim as they were, he probably wouldn’t have thought so much of it. 

As it was, the teen himself hadn’t fully realized what was happening in his own heart until the man had tossed a hoodie at Harry and smiled that strange little half-smirk, half-suppressed grin that he had whenever he was amused and not trying to hide it. He’d smiled back, then been practically bowled over by the sudden awareness that he was glad it was Snape here and not Kingsley or some other order member he didn’t really know.

He glanced up at the man again for the third time in as many minutes. They were sitting in the parlor area, Harry studying and Snape reading. When he looked up, Snape glanced up at him and met his eye. Snape raised an eyebrow, and Harry, embarrassed at being caught staring, quickly looked down again.

“Is there a reason you’ve been watching me over the past half hour?” Snape asked wryly, and Harry shook his head.

“No,” he denied, but he could tell that the man was still watching him while he stared, unseeing, at his book. “Well, I did have a question,” he said, suddenly remembering something he’d been meaning to ask.

“Go ahead,” the man said, taking a sip from his cup of tea.

“Well, I’ve been reading more about wards—” he held up the book on warding in his hands “—and it says here that to place an effective ward of protection on an object, that object needs to have significance to the caster.”

Snape stilled, and Harry was quick to notice that his previously open, relaxed expression grew shuttered.

“Y’see, I didn’t notice when you first gave it to me, but today I looked closer at the pendant you gave me out on the highlands and… it’s a lily.”

Snape slowly set down the teacup, staring blankly at a spot on the floor. “That’s a very personal topic, Potter.”

Harry flushed, regretting bringing it up. He’d just been curious about what reason Snape could possibly have to be emotionally connected enough to a silver lily pendant to cast a ward strong enough to prevent tracking and scrying. “Nevermind, sir. I didn’t mean to pry.” Obviously it was a touchy subject for the man. He buried his face into his book again, hoping Snape would let it go and not think Harry was trying to press for answers.

For a moment it seemed as though the other man would go back to his reading, but then he sighed and closed the book over his thumb. Harry glanced up again and was glad to see that the man merely looked pensive, not angry.

“That pendant was a gift from a… childhood friend.”

Harry nodded. He hadn’t known that Snape had any friends outside of the staff, but supposed that there was no reason he shouldn’t. Harry had been forced to realize that the professor was a human being this summer, and it made sense that he’d have friends outside of his life as a teacher, and that one said friends might give him a gift. He was a bit surprised that Snape would entrust it to him, however. They might be getting along better now, but they’d still thoroughly hated each other when Snape had given it to him. No, lent. It’s just a loan. He wouldn’t want you to keep it anyways. At the thought of giving it up, Harry found his hand wrapping itself around the silver lily. Even before he’d learned about its significance, he’d felt a connection to it. It would sometimes give warm pulses of magic when he was feeling down. “Where’s your friend now?” he asked, becoming curious about Snape’s life.

“She’s dead,” Snape said shortly.

“Oh,” Harry said quietly, hand dropping to rest in his lap. He saw the pained look on Snape’s face and felt bad for putting it there. “I’m sorry.”

Snape looked at him closely, then said, “It is not your fault.” The sentence seemed to have some kind of significance for the man, who turned his head away a moment later.

Feeling like he’d intruded on something private by observing this rare display of emotion, Harry ducked his head and tried to focus on the book again.

“I think,” Snape said as they sat down to another Occlumency lesson, “that we should start with simpler emotions.”

“What about them?” Harry asked.

“Well,” Snape said, steepling his fingers. “What is something that you feel strongly about? Something uncomplicated, no warring emotions or reservations.”

“Quidditch,” Harry immediately said.

Snape rolled his eyes but smiled slightly. “Surprise. Alright, how do you feel about Quidditch?”

“I love it,” Harry said simply. “When I’m on my broom, I feel free. Everything else just falls away. It’s just me, the broom, and the wind. There’s a thrill of anticipation when I see the Snitch, and adrenaline when I chase after it. And when I catch it, there’s this burst of fierce satisfaction that starts in my chest and explodes out, even to my fingertips.” His eyes had closed just thinking about it.

“What about the cheers of your screaming fans?” Snape asked, and although he would have normally sounded insulting about it, Harry only detected curiosity in his voice.

“I don’t hear them at all,” Harry confessed. I just hear the wind and the blood pounding in my ears.”

“Hm,” Snape said. “Alright, bring up your memories related to Quidditch. The first game you won, practices, celebrating with your teammates to what was no doubt an ungodly hour after winning the Quidditch Cup. Line them up in your mind. Imagine them forming a pathway.”

“A pathway of memories?” Harry asked dubiously.

“Yes,” Snape said. “If it helps to visualize it, imagine the path as something related to Quidditch. Maybe the empty rafters under the stands, or like being sucked into a wind tunnel. If you do it properly, an intruder getting forced into those memories will feel the memories as wind buffeting them. It could be quite distracting to an attacker.”

“Huh.” Harry closed his eyes, trying to do as Snape said but finding it difficult. Instead of saying he couldn’t do it (he knew the sarcastic response would amount to “you haven’t tried much”), he admitted, “It’s not easy.”

“No,” Snape conceded. “Try meditating. Instead of calm blankness, fill your mind only with Quidditch. Immerse yourself in the memories. Then begin sorting through them.”

Harry nodded, starting as always with measured breaths. Four counts in, six counts out. He’d had enough time to experiment with it to know what time increments to use during his meditations.

As he thought about Quidditch, everyday memories of practices and being with the team came up that he hadn’t thought about since they occurred. Fred and George messing around in the changing room, cleaning mud off of his ratty trainers, polishing his broom. He felt a smile on his face as he let the memories wash over him. He allowed himself to just enjoy them for a while, allowed the happy feeling spreading through him to settle there, before sorting through them. He first sorted them based on year, then on who he was with, then whether he was playing or not, and all sorts of things. When he felt like he had a good grasp of which memories were which and they no longer blended together, he imagined them forming a wind tunnel like Snape suggested. When he was done, he tried going through the tunnel.

It felt like flying. He was flying, and memories of Quidditch were batting at him like wind, there for a moment and then gone, a dizzying array of red and gold. It was all familiar to him, but anyone else would have been overwhelmed.

He opened his eyes again and grinned at Snape.

“How did it work?” the man asked.

“Brilliant,” he said.

“As I doubt you think of little besides Quidditch, I believe we have just made significant progress then. Only a couple more sessions and you should have organized what little remains.”

Harry huffed good naturedly, knowing from the smirk on Snape’s face that he was just teasing him while actually being very pleased. He blinked, realizing that he was exhausted. He propped his cheek on his hand, yawning. “Why am I so tired?”

“You just reorganized a part of your mind. That is to be expected.” Snape stood and began clattering around the kitchen. Harry’s eyes had slammed shut, so he didn’t know what Snape was doing until a finger tapped him on the head. He glanced up to see Snape holding out a mug.

Harry accepted it gratefully, wrapping his hands around it and letting the warmth seep up through his fingers. He took a sip—it was cocoa—and slouched back. Snape walked past him to his armchair in the sitting area and Harry meandered over a moment later. Setting down his mug long enough to slip into his new (and favorite) hoodie, Harry plopped down on the couch. He fought a second yawn, but it escaped through anyways. Settling into the corner between the armrest and sofa back, he took another long sip of the sweet drink.

“How did you find out about this place?” Harry asked.

“This cottage?”

“The village.”

“Ah,” Snape said. “I was out on the highlands, harvesting potions ingredients, when I saw it in the distance.”

“So you were just out collecting Flumdinger Berrysplash, saw some rooftops, and thought, ‘hey, that looks like a perfect place to hide out!’”

Snape snorted. “Flumdinger Berrysplash? Sounds like a bad soda flavor.”

Harry grinned in reply.

Half an hour later, he briefly woke when he felt Snape pull the empty mug out of his hands and set it on the table. A blanket was pulled up over his shoulders. He shifted slightly, muttering, but a low voice shushed him.

“Go to sleep, Harry.”

Harry uncurled slightly from the corner of the couch and stretched out to a more comfortable position. A hand briefly carded through his hair, and then he was asleep again.

It was the last day of August. Severus had the day off of work, and it was unusually hot out. Harry had been draped over the couch all day, disinclined to move. The air was heavy, and the very act of disturbing it with movement seemed to be taboo. Severus himself had done little other than rise from his armchair to refill his water glass. He was reading one of the many scientific studies that had been left behind by the late owners of the cabin. Yvainne’s husband Josh had been a marine biologist who came to the village to study the life cycles of various fish in the waters nearby.

There was a knock on the door, and both Severus and Harry glanced up disinterestedly. Harry forced himself to his feet after a moment’s hesitation and walked over to the door. Severus continued reading until he recognized the voices at the door as Amy Duncan and her nephew, Callum.

“Hello, Samuel,” Amy said from the doorway.

Severus reluctantly set aside the article he was reading and stood. “Amy, what a pleasant surprise.”

Harry shot him a look, as if to say, “ha, yeah right,” but the truth was, Severus didn’t mind Amy all that much. They’d had several interesting conversations since he and Harry arrived in the village, and she reminded him of a blend of Molly Weasley and Minerva McGonagall.

“Hey, Callum,” Harry said.

“Hey, Henry.”

The four of them moved to the kitchen. There were only three chairs, so Severus leaned against the counter while the other three sat down. Harry hesitated and glanced at him, but with a jerk of his chin, Severus indicated that he should sit too. Then he began pouring water for the visitors, who started chatting mildly with Harry. Conversation, like movement, was slow that day. Everyone seemed content to just sit, only bothering to speak every once in a while when a stray thought came to mind.

Since it was just as hot inside as outside, Severus opened the window to allow any stray breezes in. It was a vague hope, as it seemed just as stale out in the street as it did within the cottage, but there was always a chance.

“Are you gonna go to school with me next week?” Callum asked Harry. The children in the village were too few for a school of their own, so they traveled by speedboat to an island close by every day to and from school.

“No,” Severus cut in smoothly. “I’ll be homeschooling him.”

“Really?” Callum asked, surprised, but only managing to sit up slightly straighter.

“My dad’s a teacher,” Harry explained. Severus was proud of how quickly the teen slipped into his role whenever other people were around.

Amy, to whom Severus had already told this, nodded. “No point in paying for the boat fare if you can teach him at home.”

“I guess,” Callum sighed, and Severus supposed that the boy had been looking forward to having another friend at school. It made him glad, seeing that Harry had found someone his own age in the village.

“How do you get electricity in the winter, when the stream freezes over?” Harry asked after a while. The change in topic didn’t seem to bother anyone.

“The millwheel keeps the water churning, and breaks up thin sheets of ice, so it works when it’s still snowing and all. Sometimes, though, when it gets too cold, the stream completely freezes and the wheel gets stuck. Then there isn’t any electricity, unless you have a generator.”

“Huh,” Harry said. “It must get cold indoors.”

“That’s what fireplaces are for,” Severus said wryly. Most wizards lived without heating, Hogwarts castle included.

“I’d take a snowfall right about now,” Callum sighed, dropping his head onto his arm, which was laid across the table. Amy nudged him and he sat up again. 

“I can’t disagree,” Harry said. 

“Aunt Amy?” Callum asked, with the look of someone who had just had a good idea, “Can me and Henry go swimming?”

“If he wants to,” Amy said. “And if Mr. Paine agrees.”

“Sure,” Harry nodded, not able to muster the energy to be excited, but seeming to be okay with the idea.

Seeing this, Severus nodded. “Alright with me.”

“I’ll grab my trunks,” Callum said, standing up.

“I don’t have any,” Harry remembered, blinking.

“That’s alright, you can just wear shorts.”

The blond teen wandered out of the cottage, and Amy shook her head. “Always on the move, that one. Not even this heat can slow him down for long.”

“I’ve known other people like that,” Harry said with a small smile, likely thinking of Ron or Fred and George Weasley. He rose to put his empty glass in the sink. Just as he was passing by Severus, however, he let out a gasp of pain and the glass slipped through his fingers to shatter against the floor as he clutched his scar.

And just like that, the lazy quality of the day’s heat was a distant memory. The Dark Lord had taken a knife and slashed it through the sluggish air, cutting open a gap of tension and pain that Harry (and, tangentially, Severus) had fallen right into.

He didn’t collapse to the ground this time, but Severus reached out to steady him just in case.

“He’s so angry,” Harry whispered, so quietly that Severus himself barely caught it, and he doubted Amy heard a word. “I’m okay,” he said louder, glancing towards the very concerned woman at their kitchen table.

“Sit down,” Severus urged, pushing him into a chair. He felt the teen’s forehead with the back of his hand, but he wasn’t feverish.

“Are you alright, dear?” Amy asked, brow creased with worry.

“Yeah,” Harry grimaced, rubbing his forehead. “It’s nothing.”

“Are you sure you want to go swimming?” Severus asked, seeing Callum approach through the window.

The teen nodded and sat up, trying to act like nothing had happened when his friend entered.

“We can go down to the shore. There’s a spot on the beach where no one keeps  their boats,” Callum said, unaware of the anxiety still radiating off of the two adults.

“Cool,” Harry said. He’d apparently decided that the shorts he already had on were good enough for swimming, and Severus had no objection, so he let them leave. He and Amy followed at a slower pace, conversing quietly. He was glad that the woman didn’t want to stay inside and chat, because he wanted to keep an eye on Harry after what had just happened.

He didn’t know when he’d begun thinking of the teen as Harry, but it had seemed like a natural thing to do. “Potter” no longer seemed to fit. “Potter” was the boy’s father; and the more he was learning about how different Harry was from James, the less the name seemed to fit. So he called him Harry instead, and the boy seemed not to mind. In fact, the teen seemed pleased with the change, although Severus couldn’t think why.

They ended up waiting in the shadow provided by a store front near the water’s edge. The two boys seemed to know they were there, and Harry waved to him once briefly.

“That wasn’t the first time that has happened, was it?” Amy asked quietly.

“No,” Severus replied slowly, wondering what he should say.

“Henry is quiet, but polite. He seems sad sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching.”

Severus, who had noticed all of this before, nodded. “He’s been having migraines ever since…” Casting about for an excuse, he waffled, “Well, that’s why we were on that boat.”

Amy took it as dramatic effect. “What happened?”

An idea came to him, along with a stab of pain. “The boy’s mother. She died.” Severus didn’t have to fake the emotion this time. He allowed his head to bow and the ever-present grief to thicken his voice. “Someone killed her, and Henry witnessed it.” It was true, even if Harry’s current melancholy was about Cedric Diggory’s death.

Amy’s hand flew to her mouth. “How awful.”

“Yes.” Severus glanced out over the ocean, watching Harry splash Callum with a laugh. “Some days are better than others.”

They watched the teens swim around the shallows in silence for a while, until Amy spoke up. “You are a teacher. Do you not have a job somewhere? A home? Not that we don’t enjoy having you and Henry here, but shouldn't you go back to your lives?”

Severus closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall of the store. “There’s too many bad memories for us there. I had just quit my job in Essex and gotten my security deposit back on our apartment, and we were not so much going anywhere as running away.” If only Amy knew how true that was. “I didn’t expect to land somewhere and find that I actually liked living there.” He said this with a half-smile, which Amy returned.

“Then perhaps the sea knew you needed a place like here,” Amy said.

“Perhaps so,” Severus said.

The teens eventually decided they were done swimming. Tired, soaked, and with large smiles, they trudged back up the beach to where Severus and Amy waited with towels. They parted ways there, Callum and Amy going one way and Harry and Severus returning home.

“Did you have another scar pain?” he asked Harry, who pulled the towel tighter around himself at the mention of it.

“No. Just the one.”

“You said he was angry?”

“Yeah. Really angry. I started meditating and pushing thoughts away as soon as I felt it, but I don’t know if it worked or if that was all there was to feel.”

Severus, seeing the slightly lost look on his face, wrapped an arm around his shoulders. (Skinny! Too skinny. That must be another one of the Dursleys' many sins.) He told himself that it was just part of the act, as they were still in public; and, when Harry glanced up at him gratefully and walked a little closer to him, he told himself that that, too, was just an act.

They reached the cottage, and Severus made Harry wipe his feet free of sand before going inside. As soon as he entered, Severus heard a frantic buzzing attuned only to magical ears. Harry, entering moments later, looked up at him. “What is that?”

“The Headmaster’s parchment,” he said, striding over to his nightstand. He hadn’t written in it since that night he’d asked about Harry’s childhood, and Dumbledore hadn’t pushed for an answer. He unfurled the scroll and felt a cold chill of horror sweep through him.

“What is it?” Harry asked, hovering at the edge of the privacy screen, clearly unsure if he should enter Severus’ small domain.

“The Dark Lord became frustrated at being unable to find you. Today, he attacked the Burrow.”

Harry stumbled backwards a few steps. “Is anyone…”

Severus glanced back down at the parchment. “No one died, but Molly Weasley was injured.” He rolled it up again, not wanting to look at the words anymore. “And the house burned down.”

Snape extracted a promise from Harry that he wouldn’t run off and “do something stupid.” What the man expected Harry to do, he didn’t know. What was he going to do? Walk to England? Attack Voldemort with a rock because he didn’t want to alert the trace?

That must have been the scar pain Harry had. Voldemort had been angry. At Harry’s continued disappearance, or at not finding Harry in the Burrow?

Did it even matter? The Weasleys had still been attacked, been hurt.

Angry at Snape and angrier at how helpless he felt (promise or not, there was nothing he could do), Harry stomped out the back door. The man didn’t call him back, so he marched right out of the village and towards the hills nearby. At first he walked, and then he ran. He ran, feeling angry tears leak out of the corners of his eyes. He pushed his limbs harder, until his breath came in ragged pants and his chest burned. He felt his body start to lose strength until he stumbled and sprawled out in the grass, scraping up his hands and knees as he braced his fall.  Head hanging down, sweat and seawater dripped from his hair and he closed his eyes, feeling the heat of the day as a stifling blanket trying to smother him.

He gave in to the trembling of his arms and let go, rolling onto his back as he collapsed fully on the grass. Staring at the sky, Harry squinted against the sun as he fought to control his breathing.

He briefly lifted his head to look around, but the village had disappeared behind the crests of rolling green hills. He saw only a wild expanse of highlands, a view he’d grown used to during those first few days after the trial. He let his head fall back again.

He felt terrible. He felt responsible. Even though he could imagine Snape’s reaction if he knew, Harry’s chest constricted under the weight of guilt. Mrs. Weasley’s injuries, the Burrow burned down… all of it, because of him. Voldemort cursed and attacked and killed because he was looking for Harry. 

You are not responsible for the actions of a madman. Snape’s voice echoed in Harry’s head, deep and stern and yet gentler than Harry would have thought possible from the forbidding professor. As more liquid dripped from Harry’s head, this time his eyes, he dashed it away angrily with the back of a bloodied hand. 

He stayed there for a long time, allowing the sun’s heat to burn away his anger. When the pain from both his fall and the news had faded to a dull throb, he clambered heavily to his feet. His head swam a bit when he stood, and he had to wait a moment for the dizziness to fade. Once it had, he began the slow walk back to the village.

The tips of the roofs had just come into sight when he encountered Snape. The man, looking harried and more than a little angry, crossed his arms when he saw Harry. “I’ve just started looking for you. It’s been hours, and when I looked outside, you were gone. I waited, but you didn’t come back. I was ready—” he started to reach out to grab Harry’s shoulder but stopped abruptly when the teen shied back, wary of the man’s anger. In response, Snape lowered his arm and took a few deep breaths. His rant on pause for the moment, he peered closer at Harry. “You’re burned.”

Harry glanced half-heartedly at his arm, not surprised to see a red tint to his skin. “I’m sorry,” he croaked, mouth dry. He blinked the spots out of his eyes, wishing that he wouldn’t sway so much.

“And dehydrated.” The energy seemed to drain out of Snape as he looked down at Harry, the anger lines on his face shifting to creases of worry. He looked as though there was more that he wanted to say, but he only sighed, “Come on. Let’s get back.” Hesitantly, remembering Harry’s instinctive flinch, he reached out again. Harry’s eyes followed his hand, but he didn’t move away when Snape grasped his shoulder in a grip that was gentle despite his anger.

Harry kept pace with him, grateful when the man slowed his stride to match Harry’s tired tread. He glanced up at Snape and away again, guilt gnawing at his stomach until he felt slightly ill. He hadn’t meant to worry him.

Back in the cottage, Snape made Harry sit down at the kitchen table with a large glass of cold water while he stood next to him, arms crossed. Harry sipped slowly at the glass, sensing that as soon as he’d finished, the scolding would begin anew. He really was thirsty, however, so when he finished, he stood to get himself another glass as Snape began talking.

“What you did was reckless and foolish. Anyone could have attacked you out there, muggle or magical, and you would have been virtually helpless! I wouldn’t have even known what had happened to you.” He started pacing back and forth. “Look! You nearly passed out from dehydration. It appears that you don’t need the help of an enemy to put yourself in harm’s way. I understand that you were upset, but you cannot allow emotion to cloud your judgment. It will get you killed.”

Harry returned to his chair, eyes cast downward. He’d been scolded by adults before for his reckless actions, but he’d rarely felt guilty about what he’d done. Eager to escape the shouting, sure. Defiant, even, when he felt that his actions had been justified. He almost never felt guilty. Not like this.

“I didn’t think,” he said quietly.

“You didn’t think,” Snape repeated caustically. “That, I believe, is obvious.”

Harry frowned, gripping his cup a little tighter and keeping his eyes resolutely fixed on the floor. There was no reason for his eyes to be stinging right now. He was fifteen, not five.

A pair of boots appeared in his line of sight, and then Snape was kneeling in front of him. Harry reluctantly looked up into his face. Black eyes caught green, and Harry’s heart twisted painfully at the worry he saw there.

“Harry,” the man said softly, and the teen blinked strongly. “You cannot afford to lose sight of the dangers that hunt you. Neither of us can allow the comfort of this village to grow into complacency. The Dark Lord, his Death Eaters, and the Ministry are all looking for you. I hardly need to remind you of the consequences, should they find you.”

“No, sir,” Harry whispered, fighting against the water in his eyes.

Snape stood and looked away, as if uncomfortable at this display of emotion. He cleared his throat, but didn’t walk away. He laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder again and didn’t say anything when Harry blinked his tears away.

“Why the Weasley’s?” Harry finally asked quietly.

“Because of their connection to you, as well as their involvement in the Order of the Phoenix. Even during the last war, Arthur and Molly Weasley were prominent members.”

Harry felt himself shrink a little. “Because of me.”

“No,” the man said immediately. “Because the Dark Lord doesn’t care about who or what he hurts in his quest for power.”

“I want to do another Occlumency lesson,” Harry said abruptly, looking up into Snape’s face with intensity.

Snape’s expression quickly hid his confusion at this sudden change of topic. “If you wish.”

The man rounded the table and sat across from Harry in their customary Occlumency positions. “Three nights ago, we—”

“I want to sort my memories of Voldemort,” Harry interrupted, fierce determination surging through him to wash away his earlier grief.

“Alright,” Snape said slowly, and Harry sensed the man’s reservation.

“I hate him,” Harry said intently, fists clenching in his lap.

Snape, to Harry’s surprise, looked at him sorrowfully. “Be careful, Harry. Hate… is dangerous. It corrodes, wears away at the psyche. To permanently cement hate into your mind… it will eat at you.” He glanced away, as if pained. “I should know.”

“He’s evil. If anyone deserves to be hated, it’s him.”

“Do you know the most hateful person I know?” Snape asked, leaning forward slightly. “It’s the Dark Lord himself. Hate is the reason he attacked the Burrow tonight. It’s the reason he tortured you in the graveyard. It’s why he killed Cedric Diggory, why he killed your parents and tried to kill you as a baby. Hate is why he started this war in the first place.

“Love is the reason you are upset about his attack on the Weasleys. Don’t let that love for your friends morph into hatred of your enemies. Fight the Dark Lord, not because you hate him, but because you love your friends and family.”

“I don’t have a family, because of him.”

Snape rubbed at his temple. “I was once just like you. Young and angry. I let my hatred guide me to make choices that I’ll never stop regretting.” His right hand brushed against his left arm, almost compulsively. “I let my hate for a dead man make me bully a first year who looked too much like his father.” It was a painful thing for him to say, if the tight lips meant anything, and Harry supposed that it was closer to an apology than he had ever expected to get. “Right now, when you sort through your memories and thoughts of the Dark Lord, you make the decision to hate or not. This moment will affect all of your future dealings with him. Don’t make the mistakes I’ve made. Please.”

Snape was pleading with him. Harry swallowed, suddenly unsure. “I… don’t know if I can choose that, right now.”

“Then don’t Occlude about the Dark Lord. Not tonight. Do it tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever you can do it without hatred.”

Harry bit his lip, torn by indecision. It would be so easy, too easy, to remember every last encounter with Voldemort, to feel the hatred and anger welling up inside of him and create for them a special, dark place in his mind maze.

A place where, he realized, they would fester and grow, maybe even poisoning his other memories.

Something in his chest broke, and with a mixture of relief and regret, he laid his head on his arms, which were folded in front of him on the table. Eyes closed, he breathed deeply to calm his racing heart.

No threat of tears faced him now. He allowed himself to breathe for a few minutes before looking up again. Snape was watching him anxiously.

“Okay,” he said blandly. “I’ll wait.”

Relief bloomed across Snape’s face. He sat back in his chair, nodding. “Good. That’s good.” 

Harry looked around, trying to distract himself from feeling bad about the distress he’d just caused. Not knowing what to say to end the painful conversation, he stood without a word and walked to the counter. It was about the time they should have begun eating dinner, but no food had been prepared. He peered into the fridge.

“We have fish,” he said to Snape, who was still sitting at the kitchen table. “And we have fish. Or,” here he gave a significant raise of his brows, “we could have fish.” Living in a fishing community meant that seafood was easily the cheapest and most readily available food item.

“How about fish?” Snape responded wryly, also standing.

“If we have any,” Harry agreed, pulling out a wrapped piece of mackerel. He stood on his toes to reach for a frying pan in an overhead cupboard, but Snape grabbed it for him and handed it to him. Harry gave him a half-hearted glare as he set it on the stovetop.

Snape walked over to the fridge and pulled out a head of broccoli. Using a knife and cutting board, he set up station on the counter next to Harry and began working. Harry glanced at him sideways but didn’t comment.

“Stir fry?” Snape suggested.

“Sure,” Harry readily agreed.

They worked together in companionable silence for a while. The familiar motions of preparing a meal helped him to calm down, to think about what Snape had said about hatred. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel, if not hatred. The emotion still prowling about the corners of his mind still felt a lot like hatred to him.

“Behind you.” Snape walked around him with a pot of rice and water. Harry stepped closer to the stove to give him room.

“Can you pass the—” Harry held out his hand, only for Snape to grab his wrist in an iron grip. He startled, almost knocking the frying pan off of the stove.

“What happened to your hand?”

Oh. He meant the skid marks from where he scraped them up. “I fell when I was running.”

Snape gave him a stern look.

“I washed them,” Harry protested. “They won’t get infected or anything.”

“Let me see the other one,” Snape demanded, and Harry produced his other hand for inspection with a sigh.

Snape gave him that same thin-lipped look that he’d had when he saw Harry’s raw wrists. 

“Why does it matter?” Harry asked, genuinely bewildered, and feeling his patience with the world wearing down. Such a whirlwind of emotions in one day, and they hadn’t even eaten dinner yet.

“Because you matter,” Snape said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Harry looked at him blankly for a moment, and Severus realized that the teen didn’t believe him. He’d probably never been told that in his life.

Severus abruptly released Harry’s hands, turning to the stove to light a burner for the rice while his mind raced. He was the last person to give advice about self-confidence. He loathed the world only slightly less than he loathed himself.

“For the war, you mean,” Harry said slowly, as if he were almost afraid of hearing any other answer.

Severus was tempted to lie or otherwise ignore the unasked question. Why would I matter, except to fight Voldemort? He could hear it in the teen’s own voice, plaintive and sad and younger than his fifteen years. It would be much easier to say nothing or give some non-committal hum and let Harry think what he will. Severus should keep silent.

“Not necessarily,” he heard himself saying instead.

“What do you mean?” Harry burst, as if unable to help himself.

“I believe,” said Snape slowly, stirring the rice, “that it is a largely understood concept that every human being has intrinsic value.” There! That was safely neutral.

When the teen didn’t respond to that, he continued. “You are a person, like any other.”

Harry didn’t speak for a long time. They continued to work, until Harry’s voice hesitantly reached out into the silence, so quiet that he almost missed it. “I don’t feel like one, sometimes.”

Severus felt his hand still as his heart clenched. He continued stirring mechanically, not knowing what to say to encourage the emotionally repressed teen to open up further. Ha! Like you’re one to talk. He settled for a tactic that had often worked as a head of house. He merely said, “Oh?” and left Harry to fill the silence afterward.

After a moment, the teen did. “A lot of the time I feel normal, and I think that I’m handing it. His death, you know. Cedric’s. But if I think about it too much, or wonder why I’m doing something, I realize that I’m just going through the motions. As if what I think I’m feeling is just how I expect I should be feeling, when really… I don’t feel much of anything, at all.” He kept his head down, and Severus couldn’t get a good look at his face.

“A common reaction after a traumatic experience,” Severus said honestly.

Not really hearing him, Harry continued. “And when I was little, I used to wonder why I wasn’t like other people, ’cause my accidental magic made my family upset. They would yell at me and stuff.” Severus got the distinct impression that ‘yell and stuff’ didn’t nearly cover it, but remained silent in favor ofd hearing more. “They said that normal people didn’t do freaky things like me.”

“You are not a freak,” Severus said strongly, as the word hit too close to home. His own father had called him a freak more than once during his drunken rages. “No wizarding child is a freak for accidental magic.”

“Well, they didn’t see it like that,” Harry said quietly, and Severus realized that he’d surprised the teen by his strong reaction. “They didn’t think I was a person. Not like them.”

Words came to him then. Severus did a meditation breath to keep his voice calm. "They are wrong. They believe that magicals like your friends Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger are bad, do they not? Do you agree?” The teen rapidly shook his head. “Of course not. You know better. You know the truth. And you, Harry, are no different than they. The Dursleys'… insults, their atrocious falsehoods, are no more true for you than they are for your friends."

"Lies can hurt even when you know they're lies," Harry said.

Pained at that statement, Severus nodded. “I know. But Harry…” he paused, a thousand platitudes coming to him and rejected in the same moment. “You are a person, important, like everyone else. You deserve to be safe, to be happy. Don’t let them take your happiness.”

“It’s not just them,” Harry said, standing up slightly taller and shaking off his hurt. “Voldemort and Fudge have also been doing their damndest to prove that I’m nothing.”

“They are trying to prove their own false images.” Severus snorted. “Fudge wants to prove you a liar, which you are not. The Dark Lord wants to prove that you are no threat to him.”

“Which I’m not,” Harry muttered.

Severus hmmed, but it was not a sound of agreement. Still, deeply-rooted convictions to never compliment a Potter kept his lips shut.

“What?” Harry said, lowering the heat on the mackerel and turning to him demandingly. “You think I have a chance to do anything but die next time we meet?”

“You’ve already bested him four times,” Severus reminded him, amused despite himself that their usual roles of doubt and defense were switched.

“I survived four times,” Harry corrected.

“Trust me, Potter,” Severus said, amusement fading. “When it comes to the Dark Lord, that is more than most others have managed.” Bodies, too many bodies, were marching through his memories.

Harry, sensing the turn of his mood, didn’t respond. Severus awkwardly reached out and ruffled the child’s hair, not sure how to be comforting but wanting Harry to understand that he wasn’t mad. Not at him, Severus thought darkly, nobly shutting down fantasies of showing the Dursleys a trick or two from his Death Eater days. The younger boy didn’t flinch, but looked up at him, smiling a little, and Severus understood that he was grateful for what Severus had tried to tell him. After that, they worked together to finish the meal in a not uncomfortable silence.

Dinner was a quiet affair that night. Severus found himself pondering the teen before him.

To a child who had spent his whole life in a household where he was treated as though he didn’t matter, as if he were somehow lesser than everyone else, the idea of being important by the very virtue of being was entirely foreign.

And, Severus realized as he watched the teen eat woodenly, every primary teacher who never intervened, every peer that never spoke up, would have been an implicit confirmation of this idea to a child who was in a bad situation and never removed from it. Then Harry had come to Hogwarts, where he was hailed by everyone as the Savior of the Wizarding World, and still no one had done anything. He had returned there, summer after summer, as though no one cared enough to stop it.

He also knew, however, that abused children often hid their home lives out of shame or a misplaced sense of duty.

Wanting to discuss this further, but knowing that the moment of candor had passed, Severus eyed the bags under Harry’s eyes. “Perhaps an early night?”

Harry paused, fork halfway up to his mouth. He darted a glance at Severus before returning his fork to his plate. “I don’t think I could sleep right now.”

Severus, privately agreeing, sighed. “Perhaps an Occlumency lesson then.” Cutting off the teen’s question before he could ask it, he said, “Not of the Dark Lord, or the Dursleys either. Perhaps the village?”

Harry’s face brightened. “Yeah.”

They finished eating. Washing the dishes together had become their custom, so Severus spent the time contemplating how to run this lesson.

Sitting down at the table again, he folded his arms and leaned back in his chair comfortably. “We will be learning a new technique tonight, and you can work on building a path of village memories for your mind maze throughout the day tomorrow.”

He knew he’d gotten Harry’s attention when he sat forward, green eyes sparkling with interest. “A new technique?”

“One you will need to use for Quidditch as well, although not yet.” Hopefully, he will get to use it. Severus didn’t mention his private concern that Harry would be unable to return to the wizarding world until reaching majority.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“It is a way to process new memories and place them in your mind maze as they occur,” Severus said.

“Oh,” Harry said, looking less thrilled. Severus smirked. He’d picked up on Severus’ intonation that this would not be an easy task.

“While not easy to master,” Severus acknowledged, “it is very important. One simply does not have time to sit down for an hour or two at the end of every day and sort out their new memories. Additionally, Occluding thoughts and memories as they happen will keep you prepared for an attack at any moment. Unsorted memories are an opportunity for a belligerent Legillimens. They may use them to get a stronghold in your mind and attack you from a safer position.”

Harry grimaced. Good. While Severus didn’t mean to scare the teen, it was important that Harry understand the way an attack worked. “The prevention of access to unsorted memories is every Occlumens’ goal. Many use a wall to block a Legillimens from reaching these. What I have been teaching you, however, is to simply have no unsorted memories by creating a mind maze of which only you know the safe routes.”

“You mean, I can make my mind dangerous for an intruder? Not just confusing, I mean?”

Severus smiled slightly. “That’s a ways away,” he said wryly, and Harry ducked his head. “Eventually, however, that is the goal. A mind maze also has other benefits, which we have already discussed.” Harry nodded.

“What do I do?” Harry asked.

“How do we always start practice?” Severus prompted.

“Meditation,” Harry sighed, closing his eyes. Severus stood and walked over to the side table where Harry had left The Art of War last. He returned to the kitchen table, pleased to see that Harry had kept his eyes closed and continued focusing. A few minutes later, he opened them again, facial expression noticeably calmer.

“Now,” Severus said, “think of your memories, thoughts, feelings, and conjectures relating to this book.” He held up The Art of War. “Sort and occlude them now.”

Harry frowned thoughtfully for a few minutes as he thought of how to structure his thoughts, then nodded and closed his eyes again. Severus waited patiently.

It took less time than sorting the Quidditch memories had, as there were far fewer and it wasn’t the teen’s first time. When Harry grinned at him, signaling a successful attempt, he asked, “How did you do it?”

“I created a tiny room with bookshelves and made each memory a different book on the shelves,” Harry said. “I left room on the shelves for more ‘books’ though, since I haven’t finished with The Art of War it yet.”

Severus nodded. “You can use both pathways and enclosed locations, although I would recommend using rooms for the more sensitive memories and pathways for the less important. That way you can force an intruder down the pathways and guide them away from the rooms.”

“It’s like a really complicated house,” Harry nodded. “I know you said I wouldn’t make traps yet, but can I do that by making rooms of disorienting memories and forcing the Legillimens inside?”

“That is one of many methods,” Severus confirmed. “You can use more than one form of trap. At the moment, however, I want you to read another chapter.”

Severus held out the book to Harry, who took it, looking slightly confused. He’d previously finished chapter five, Energy, so he flipped through the pages to VI: Weak Points and Strong.

“Immerse yourself in the memory room as you read,” Severus instructed. “While you focus on the book, send the new information: impressions, feelings, your surroundings, directly into the room. Occlude the memory as it occurs. This also has the added benefit of improving your memory. Memories you automatically Occlude in the moment will retain a clarity greater than others.”

“So I’m supposed to practice Occluding with the book, while reading, and taking notes?” Harry asked, eyebrows lifting.

“Problem, Mr. Potter?”

“No, sir,” Harry said, lowering his gaze to the words on the page. “It’s just a lot to focus on.”

“Which is why this is practice,” Severus reminded him, standing. He passed by the teen and briefly laid a hand on his shoulder. “Be patient with yourself. Becoming frustrated will only impede your focus.”

Harry saluted cheekily, and Severus cuffed him lightly over the head. The teen ducked his head, grinning. Insolence!

Shaking his head in what he disturbingly realized was fondness, Severus walked to the sitting area and settled in to finally finish the scientific study he had started that morning. He could hear the occasional sounds of Harry’s pen scribbling on the paper, as well as the turning of pages as he studied the chapter.

“Sir?” Harry asked.

“Hmm?"

“I’m sorry. And thank you.”

Severus raised his head to see the teen looking at him sincerely. “You’re welcome.”

"Are you sure?" McAullife asked, pausing in the middle of restocking produce.

Harry nodded emphatically. "My dad said I could get a part-time job as long as I still had time for my studies." He'd gotten used to referring to Snape as 'dad' around other people, and no longer stumbled over the term. No one seemed to think anything was off.

McAuliffe studied him for a moment, likely deciding if it was worth it to agree. "Alright." He handed Harry the box of fruits. "Might as well start now. Careful not to bruise anything."

Harry nodded again and began putting food away. McAuliffe stood a few feet back, watching. Harry eased his nerves with meditation breaths. Soon, the man nodded a couple of times and walked away, presumably satisfied that Harry wasn't hopelessly inept.

Earlier that morning, Snape had left for work with a reminder to Harry to start Occluding thoughts of the village. Harry had spent two full hours meditating and sorting through memories of the small community. After a few failed experiments, he arranged them like a path down a valley in the Highlands. He'd chosen to leave memories of their cottage and living with Snape separate, since he felt different emotional ties to those than the village at large. McAullife's counted as part of the village valley, so he tried to keep his focus in the valley as he stocked to "Occlude as the memories occured." It was difficult, and he knew he'd have to re-sort them later. Still, Snape had impressed upon him how important it was to practice. "It's the only way you'll learn to do it," he had said before leaving, stern and serious. 

After restocking, Harry found a broom and started cleaning up the small shop. McAullife disappeared into a back room, emerging whenever the bell rang to indicate a customer.

Just before his two hour shift was up, a young woman he'd seen but never spoken to entered the store. She was tall and looked rather disheveled. She peered at him curiously. "Hello, lad."

"Hello, ma'am," he said politely, leaning against his broom handle.

She tilted her head at him. "You're that English boy, right? Henry?"

Harry nodded, unsurprised to learn that the whole village had heard of them. "Henry Paine."

She opened her mouth to respond, but noticed McAuliffe appear at the counter. Her eyes narrowed and she marched up to him. "Can't give it a break, can you?"

"Pardon?" McAuliffe said, but Harry was suspicious of his innocent tone.

"That… monstrous excuse for a musical instrument. Every. Morning." She jabbed a finger at the old man. "One of these days, you'll go to play that thing and find a few holes in it!"

"Good morning to you, too, Iona," McAuliffe said, amusement poorly concealed.

She rolled her eyes. "I see you have a helper," she said. "I just hope he can tolerate you long enough to get paid." She swept away, business evidently finished. She glanced at Harry as she passed. "Nice meeting you, Henry."

"You too," he said awkwardly as the door slammed shut and McAuliffe laughed heartily.

“Always has to come in and heckle me,” he chuckled. “Alright, Henry. That’s enough for today. You did well. Meet me tomorrow at six in the morning.”

“Where?”

“Follow the pipes,” McAuliffe grinned, and Harry laughed and waved goodbye as he started home.

When he entered the cottage, he was able to stop the “active Occluding” (as he’d begun to think of it) and relax, since he hadn’t sorted out memories of home yet.

Is it really home? Did I really just think that? Harry stood frozen just inside the doorstep, looking around the now-familiar cottage. There was the couch, his blanket thrown over the back. Snape had scrounged up a pillow from somewhere, and it was tucked unobtrusively against one armrest. His armchair had a healthy pile of books beside it. There was the privacy screen, as always concealing Snape’s bed and nightstand. The dresser beside the bookshelf had linens and clothes. In another corner, the kitchen table stood ready for tonight’s meal. All of it was familiar, and all of it was dear. Yeah. I guess it is.

He started making dinner, putting a special effort into the meal as a sort of apology to Snape for running off the day before. He was still working on it when the man walked in the door.

“Hello, sir,” he said.

“Harry,” Snape greeted, tossing his apron in the corner. “You were successful?”

“Yeah?” Harry said, unsure if Snape was talking about Occlumency or getting a job.

“How much are you making?” the man asked, disappearing behind the privacy screen.

Job, then. “I’m not getting paid in money,” Harry replied mysteriously.

Snape poked his head around the screen. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll see,” Harry promised.

“I’m not sure I want to,” his professor muttered, disappearing again.

Harry smirked, then felt a wave of self-doubt crashing through his good humor. Maybe he should have worked for money instead? He felt awful, knowing that Snape was working with fish all day just so they could survive here. It was selfish of him to just let his teacher, a man with barely any ties or duty to him, take on the responsibility of… what? A guardian? A par—

“I hope you had a chance to practice Occlumency today?” came a voice behind him.

He glanced over his shoulder to see Snape picking up The Art of War from the coffee table. “Yeah, I did.” He returned to the pan of gravy he was stirring. “Bloody difficult, trying to hold a conversation and Occlude at the same time.”

“Yes…” came the distracted reply. “That’s why you need to practice. Harry, you have eight notes here for chapter six.”

“I know.” Harry felt his neck heat with embarrassment. “It was a longer chapter, and I just wanted to remember my thoughts. I knew there only had to be five notes, but I didn’t think it’d be a big deal to write more.”

“I’m not chastising you,” Snape said. “That’s good. I don’t want this to just be another assignment; I want you to take away the key points. I also see that your notes are becoming more in-depth.” He was quiet for a few minutes, and Harry realized he was reading them when he said, “This part, here. For chapter five.”

“What?” Harry asked, suddenly worried that he’d messed up somehow. So far, Snape had been generally pleased with his thoughts and theories on the book, and he found that he didn’t want to disappoint him now. Stop being pathetic. It’s not like it’d be the first time you didn’t live up to expectations.

The man began to read aloud. “‘You can use bait to keep the enemy moving and wasting their energy. Remember, deception. Distract V—’” he stumbled over the name, and it was the first time Harry had ever heard the man verbally hesitate. “Distract the Dark Lord ‘by sending him chasing after false leads since he’s looking after me?’ What spurred this thought?”

“That chapter was all about moving and acting efficiently and not wasting energy or resources when you don’t have to. There was a part near the end about making your enemy waste their energies by using bait and distractions to get them to go chasing false weaknesses and stuff like that.”

Snape slowly walked to his normal chair at the kitchen table, now reading the last page of chapter six in the book itself. “Yes, I see.” He looked up at Harry, his chess-face on. “You mentioned using false leads to distract the Dark Lord?”

“Yeah. I mean, I know there’s nothing we could do from here, but… I don’t know, maybe Dumbledore could…?” he felt stupid as he started dishing out food onto plates.

“Professor Dumbledore, Harry. Could what?”

“Y’know, give Voldemort something else to chase after so he doesn’t go around burning down people’s houses.” He thumped the plate down on the table with a little more force than he’d intended, and Snape gave him a look. “Sorry.”

“Such as?” Snape prompted.

Harry, submitting to the fact that Snape wanted to have a full conversation about the book and maybe even the war, sighed and thought. “Maybe… a photograph anonymously sent to the paper, something like with a blurry picture of me in the woods far away from here? Tonks could impersonate me. The paper would publish it, since I’m sure they’ve made me the new Sirius. I’ve probably got my own cell in Azkaban waiting for me by now,” he groused.

“Perhaps,” Snape said, ignoring that last comment. “That brings up another point about these notes. Most of your annotations are about fighting the Dark Lord.”

“I thought that was the angle most relevant to me,” Harry said slowly. The whole moving chariots and having many spears stuff didn’t really apply in the most literal sense, but they were at war and he did have an enemy.

“It is,” Snape conceded. “But there is more to consider than the ‘Dark Lord angle’ now. At the moment, the Ministry itself is also a threat. I know Fudge pales in comparison, but there are a lot more things and people to look out for than before.”

Harry sat down with his own plate and tried a bite, glad to taste that it had turned out well. “Well, any public ‘sighting’ would send both of them running.”

“And the clash could be deadly,” Snape mused, finally realizing that the food was ready and taking a bite of his own. “Oh, this is well made.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, telling himself that he was only smiling because the meal was good, and that he didn’t really care about the rare praise.

“Besides the photograph, what other bait could be employed?” Snape asked, standing to get a drink.

“Well, an anonymous letter could do the same thing. ‘Oh, I think I saw Harry Potter in Wales!’ Anyone might see it in the paper. Or, if we wanted to just send the Ministry somewhere, we could send a tip to the Aurors. I bet they’re asking for information from the public, like they did when Sirius broke out.”

“No doubt,” Snape said, looking in the fridge. “The Dark Lord has spies in the Ministry, however. Even a private tip would make its way to his ear.”

“Great,” Harry muttered. “So getting caught by the Ministry just means getting caught by Voldemort, but with a middle man?”

“We believe you may have been convicted because he has more power in the Ministry than we thought,” Snape reminded him. “One of his plants could have sent the Dementor after you in the first place.”

“Oh, yeah.” Harry rested his cheek on his hand, appetite waning. “Either that, or everyone just hates me.”

“Don’t sulk,” Snape said, “you can’t pull it off.”

Harry smiled despite himself.

“What other bait could be set?”

“Tonks, someone with polyjuice, or a good glamor could be seen in public. That might be dangerous for them, though, if they got attacked. If Dumbledore was known to be ‘inquiring’ in a certain area, that might make Voldemort think I could be hiding there. Maybe we could let the aurors intercept a letter from me to Hermione or someone about french food.” He grinned. “Maybe we could fake my death real well. Then everybody would stop looking for me.”

Snape snorted. “And send people into paroxysms of grief, or perhaps even give the Dark Lord an incentive to forward his plans and begin his war in earnest.”

“Who would grieve me?” Harry asked derisively. “My friends, sure. Maybe some of my housemates. But most of the school doesn’t trust me, thinks I’m to blame for Cedric’s death.” And they’re right. “And most of the public believes I’m an attention seeking brat now, thanks to the Daily Prophet and the Ministry. Voldemort and his Death Eaters would probably get together and throw a luau.”

Snape started choking on his food and glared balefully at Harry. “Thanks… for that mental image, Potter,” he managed between coughs.

“Lucius Malfoy in a grass skirt,” Harry mused, fighting to keep the thoughtful expression on his face and not give in to laughter.

“We’re not staging your death,” Snape said with an air of finality, valiantly ignoring that last comment. “It would be too much of a wild card. There’s no way to know the consequences were we to do so.”

“Alright,” Harry said grudgingly, for the idea of being dead to society came with a distinct appeal. No one glared in the street at dead people, or wrote nasty articles about locking them up. No, you were mourned or scorned, then forgotten. “We could set up a fake safe house with really hard protective spells on them and leak the location to someone that I was there. Someone could spend hours or even days trying to break in, only to find that it was a mop with clothes on it charmed to move past the windows and cast shadows.”

“Yes, a mop could very well simulate your hair,” Snape mused, eyeing Harry’s head.

“Oi!”

“You need a haircut.”

Harry wisely ignored the urge to make a comment about Snape’s own hair, which was past his shoulders now and usually tied back to escape the summer heat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re shaggy,” Snape corrected. “Besides the staged death, those are all viable options.” Having finished his meal, he walked over to his sleeping area and returned shortly with the charmed parchment. “I shall mention it to the Headmaster.”

“Really?” Harry asked. It was one thing for the man to talk to him about his ideas in a theoretical sense, but to actually consider applying them in the war… he felt a small glow of pride at the thought.

“You are, unfortunately, a part of this war. There’s no reason to dismiss a good idea out of hand, however unlikely the source.”

“Unfortunately?” Harry asked.

“No child should be expected to become a soldier,” Snape said, beginning to write on the parchment. He always used a quill on the parchment, but muggle pens for other things.

“I’m not a child,” was Harry’s automatic response. “I’m fifteen.”

Snape only raised his eyebrows, as if his point had just been proved.

Shaking his head, Harry carried his plate to the sink and began washing up. Snape looked up, as if about to protest, then seemed to think better of it and returned to the parchment.

Harry wondered if it was because they usually did the dishes together. Well, he’s busy right now. No reason to wait just because he's writing Dumbledore. They could end up talking for an hour about the war. And it’s not as if Snape would stop mid-sentence and jump up to help him. A routine they may have, but some things were more important.

He quickly finished and turned to see that Snape was still talking to Dumledore. He sat down and waited until the man finished the sentence he was writing and asked, “What does he think?”

“He agrees that it’s a good idea,” Snape said. “He’s going to discuss it with the Order, and hopefully try the anonymous letter idea in a day or two.” Snape’s last sentence on the parchment faded, and new words began to appear on the paper in a flowy script. “And he wishes me to inform you that Molly Weasley is recovering well.”

“Good,” Harry sighed in relief, shoulders slumping at the release of tension quietly held in his shoulders ever since he heard about the attack.

Snape slowly crossed his arms. “So. Your new job. If not monetary, what other compensation are you receiving for your efforts?”

Harry grinned and hoped that the backlash wouldn’t be too terrible when Snape found out.

The bagpipes felt heavy in Harry’s arms and he shifted awkwardly, unsure how to hold them properly. McAullife waited patiently for him to get comfortable, then adjusted the bass drone on his shoulder slightly.

“Inflate the bag.”

“Huh?”

“Breathe into the blow-stick and inflate the bag.”

Harry did.

“Alright, give ‘em a blow,” he said.

“J-just like that?” Harry asked.

McAullife nodded.

HONK!

Harry coughed and winced. The pressure needed to force the air through the blow-stick was much harder than he’d expected, and the sound was… not pretty.

“Not easy, is it?” McAullife asked, not troubled.

“Yeah,” Harry admitted.

“That’s why you’ll be startin’ on a practice chanter.”

“A what?”

McAullife lifted the pipes off of Harry’s shoulder and stuck a long, thin stick in his hand. “A practice chanter.”

Harry looked at it. It looked like the stick hanging down from the normal pipes, with eight holes drilled into it. No bag, no drones, just a pipe.

“It’s generally a good idea to start with one,” McAullife said kindly.

Harry nodded and placed it to his lips, then hesitated.

“Go on.”

Harry blew into it, varying the effort he put into his air until the tone was slightly tolerable. He covered the top opening with a finger, then the next one, and kept covering more holes until they were all plugged. He listened to the changes in pitch curiously, having to take multiple breaths of air as he experimented with different notes.

“How long until I can use the real thing?” He asked.

McAullife chuckled wryly. “We’ll see. D’you know how to read sheet music?”

“No…” Harry said, wondering if this would be a big deal.

“Ah, well,” McAullife shrugged. “Not too hard to learn.”

Harry was beginning to wonder if his deal to work for lessons was worth it.

At the old man’s urging, Harry ran through the scale. At some point, McAullife had settled the pipes onto his own shoulders and started playing along. The sound of the full pipes was much richer than his little practice chanter, but Harry remembered how overwhelmed he’d felt when he realized how much there was to keep track of with the full set. Arm pressure, drone position, chanter, keeping the bag inflated, just breathing... 

After half an hour was up, Harry felt ready to lay down on the grass and just breathe. His lips hurt from blowing into the chanter, and his ears were ringing a bit.

“Cheer up, lad,” McAullife said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You didn’t think it would be easy, did you?”

Harry had known, in a sort of intellectual way, that learning an instrument would not be an easy task. Still, he hadn’t really understood until he’d tried to do it.

“No,” Harry admitted, then stood up straighter. “But I’m not giving up.”

“That’s the spirit!” McAullife grinned, and the two walked back towards the village. Harry stopped by his shop briefly to pick up the workbook on learning sheet music. He flipped through it as he walked, grimacing at the illustrations and font. It was clearly designed for children, but as such was simple and easy to understand.

He opened the door to the cottage and walked in, not looking up from the book.

“And you’re going to do that… how often?” a weary voice asked.

Harry finally glanced up to see Snape at the kitchen counter, glaring at him balefully. “Uh… every morning?”

Snape returned to the eggs he was scrambling, muttering under his breath. Harry sat at the kitchen table, trying to ignore the man’s ill-temper. He didn’t think Snape was truly angry, but years of avoiding people in a temper were hard to forget.

He jumped slightly when a plate was thumped onto the table in front of him. A glance up and he caught Snape’s apologetic wince, and then Harry began eating the eggs, wariness partially fading into confusion. Snape was annoyed and tired, but fed him and seemed to feel bad for startling him. His own family would lock him up or refuse to feed him at any mild inconvenience.

Snape sat down across from him, head in his hands. Harry watched him, the last dregs of fear draining out of his system. Eventually Snape looked up, running his hands down his face. He cleared his throat and asked, “So, what are the terms of your arrangement with McAullife?”

“Two hours of work for one hour of lessons,” Harry said.

“But you were only out there for half an hour.”

“That’s why I work every other day.”

“Hmm.”

Harry resisted the urge to fidget. “Sir, I didn’t mean to do something wrong. If you really don’t want—”

Snape waved a hand and stood. “No. It’s alright. If you wish to work for a reward, that’s your own business.” He grabbed his apron from where it hung over the privacy screen and started for the door. He was halfway out of it when he paused, looking back at Harry. He opened his mouth slightly, as if to say something, then gave an awkward smile that turned out more like a grimace and left.

Harry turned back to his eggs, flipping open the workbook but not really seeing the notes on the page. That attempt at a smile, while unsuccessful, helped Harry understand that he wasn’t in trouble. He hadn’t broken any rules, but that had never stopped adults before. It seemed like Snape wasn’t about to make a big deal about it, however, so he relaxed.

He stood up to grab a pen and began labeling the notes on the staff.

Severus waved to the manager Allan and washed his hands at the sink before taking his station at the counter. He reached for a scaling knife and set to work, the mindless monotony of the task allowing him to think about other things.

He hadn’t meant to alarm Harry earlier, but in his irritation he hadn’t been able to see how tense the teen had become. He should have known, as children from less than ideal households tended to be extremely sensitive to the moods of those around them.

He turned the descaled fish over and grabbed a different knife. Making a deep cut behind the head near the gills, he tried to forget the flinch. Harry knew that Severus wouldn’t hurt him. 

Didn’t he?

He made a similar cut on the other side of the fish, removing the head with a firm cut through the spine.

“Fresh batch o’ salmon come in yesterday. Peter’s crew had a good haul.” Allan noted, passing by.

Severus nodded, but made no reply. Allan, used to his employee’s reticence, was not bothered.

True, he’d been annoyed by the bagpipes that morning (Harry had left, sheepishly informing him about his lessons, and Severus had known the minute a short silence in the music was followed by an unholy blast that it was going to be a long concealment), but it wasn’t the only issue that worried him.

The last two days and their conversation the night before had been an unwelcome reminder of the war that faced them just outside the boundaries of the safe place they had found. Severus didn’t know how long their stop here would last, but the tenuousness of their position was never far from his mind. One spell cast, one mistake in his anti-tracking wards, one lucky guess from the searchers pursuing them… any small error would be enough to end everything they had built here.

Not that it’s very much, he thought, descaling the next fish with a little more vigor than strictly required. Every time Harry curled up to sleep on the couch, Severus felt a pang of guilt and… well, inadequacy. He knew that he wasn’t his father Tobias, that Harry had no reason to depend on or expect anything from him besides what a teacher might reasonably provide. In fact, based on what he knew of the Dursleys, he probably expected far less than that. Severus knew that this situation was nothing like his own childhood, but he still saw himself instead of Harry whenever he thought about the depressingly thin wallet in his back pocket.

It wasn’t that Severus was incapable of providing. His qualifications in the wizarding world were stellar (discounting his Death Eater status), but the truth was, this was not the wizarding world. This village was not a perfect sample of the muggle world either. The options for work were limited here, and none of the residents lived in expansive wealth. Still, it rankled to know that Severus was unable to even provide a bed for his charge.

He wasn’t too great at providing emotional stability, either.

His sleep had been interrupted and not particularly restful the night previous. His various concerns had run through his mind on loop. The war, the ministry, the trial. The village, Harry, his job. 

Carefully running his finger across the fish, he checked for any stomach bones he may have missed. Feeling one, he pulled it out. He began cutting up the fish into equal salmon steaks, making deft slices into the skin for ease of cooking. He wrapped each steak into a square of butcher paper, taping it closed and placing it in a growing stack between his station and Francis’.

“How are you doing, Samuel?” Francis asked, placing his own freshly-wrapped steak next to Severus’. He had been the worker assigned to showing him “the ropes” when he first arrived, and had been impressed with Severus’ knowledge of preparing fish.

“Surviving,” Severus said wryly.

Francis nodded in understanding.

Why does it bother you so much? Severus asked himself as he reached for another fish. The parallels between his life in Spinner’s End and their hideout here were few. He and Harry were not related. Severus didn’t waste their money on liquor. Their home, while one room and not really their own, was clean. They ate sufficiently, and Harry's clothes fit. Harry was actually safer here than at school, which is not something Severus would have said about his own home. Nor did the teen try desperately to earn his approval.

Doesn’t he?

Ridiculous! Harry Potter had never liked his potions professor. Neither did I ever give him reason to. That, at least, was one similarity. Both had past conflicts with their guardians. It had never stopped a younger Severus from wishing that his dad loved him, but the situations were not equal.

“At least I never tossed him down the stairs,” Severus muttered, finding more satisfaction in chopping the salmon’s head off than was probably healthy.

“What’s that?” Francis asked.

“Nothing,” Severus said shortly. A moment later, he asked, “Where can I buy a bed around here?”

Francis glanced up at him. “A bed?”

“My son. He’s been on the couch ever since we got here. Doesn’t complain, of course, but still.”

“Ah, I see. Well, McAullife’s doesn’t exactly carry furniture, but you can either take a short boat trip to the city and get one or pick from a catalog at McAullife’s and he’ll order it for you. Either way, you have to pay the boat fare on top of the frame price.” He cut out the spine of his fish, considering. After a brief pause, he said, “But you don’t have to order one. Several people ‘round here are handy with a hammer. If you buy the lumber, we’ll build one for you.”

“I can’t accept-"

“Don’t say anything about charity, Sam. You can pay us in dinner afterwards, or give some money to the younger lads who are trying to save up. In the end, though, it’ll still be cheaper than buying something from the island, and it’ll probably be better quality, too. You’ll have to buy the mattress, but we can take care of the frame itself.” He caught the look on Severus’ face and crossed his arms. “You’re part of the village now, yeah? Don’t know why you’ve decided to stick around, but you have, and we take care of our own. What do you think the rest of us do when something breaks? This isn’t anything the boys and I wouldn’t do for anybody else.”

He and Severus stared each other down, until Allan strode past and they returned to their work.

“Well?”

Severus breathed out heavily through his nose. “Alright.”

Francis grinned at him, and although Severus didn’t smile back, he felt some of the weight on his shoulders lift a bit.

So far, Harry had been able to neatly avoid Occluding anything too conflicting. Steering away from topics like the Dursleys (and, oddly, Snape), he'd sorted through his friends, class, Gryffindor tower, and the Hogwarts Express. All of these, being mildly safe subjects, had been shaped into tunnels and paths in his mind.

Snape had coached him through organizing the pathways into the very beginnings of a maze. He'd been alarmed to find, upon reviewing memories sorted a while ago, that several of the pathways had deteriorated. The general shape was still there, but the tightly compact and meticulously arranged assortment of thoughts had started to become loose. He had been alarmed, but Snape seemed to think this was not a big deal. He merely told Harry, "You are fourteen. You have never practiced Occlumency before. I'd be more surprised if they did stay where you put them the first, second, or even tenth time. Occlumency is a lifetime study. The focus and discipline required to maintain your mind maze is not something that can be learned in a month's time. Additionally, as a teenager, your brain is still developing. As you grow older, your abilities will develop with it."

Harry knew that speech was a long, Snape-speak way of saying "be patient and deal with it," but he had not been happy to spend an entire lesson redoing what he'd already considered finished and out of the way. At least it had been an excuse to not address any more difficult subjects.

Now, however, he stared blankly down at The Art of War, knowing that this lucky break wasn’t going to last much longer. It was raining heavily outside, a late summer storm having rolled in from the sea and settled in above the village. Snape had been oddly irritated by this. It was another of his rare days off, so Harry figured that he must not have been happy about being trapped indoors. Right now, he was pacing back and forth near the bookcase.

Harry tried to focus on the book again. Chapter VII., Maneuvering, wasn’t capturing his attention today. The thought of strategic troop placement and how to travel across land irked him, trapped and in hiding as he was. Giving it up as a lost cause for the moment, he shut the book over his notes and pushed it away.

“I’ll be back,” Snape abruptly said, heading for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Keep studying,” came the unhelpful response, and Harry scowled as the door shut.

He reached for his Herbology textbook and flipped it open. Snape had been giving him assignments for all of his classes, and Harry had been forced to sort of teach himself most of the material. He wasn’t willing to go to Snape about it if he had trouble, so he struggled on. The professor always talked about any mistakes in his essays after he “graded” them, so he was usually able to understand it all in the end.

Snape wasn’t the best teacher. He’d known that since his first potions class. The man was harsh, unyielding, and impatient. He knew his stuff, but seemed to take the duty of imparting his knowledge to students as a personal affront.

In other regards, however, he wasn’t as terrible as Harry would have predicted before the trial. When he wasn’t trying to teach, he was more relaxed, and Harry had even noticed a dry, sarcastic sense of humor that could be funny when it wasn’t directed at him. He had also turned out to be not too bad at being a guardian, or whatever role he was taking now. They had just gone into hiding together, and Snape, being the adult, had been the responsible one. It had seemed natural, and Harry wasn’t too bothered about putting a label on it. Snape was in charge, Harry got away with what he could, and didn’t overly mind the rest.

He finished Herbology pretty quickly. It was a shorter assignment, which Harry thought might have been because Snape was tired at the end of the day and didn’t want to spend half an hour reading through all of his homework. Not about to complain about it, Harry paused his work to stretch.

The door opened, and Snape hurried in, looking slightly bedraggled from the rain. He shut the door quickly behind him, and Harry left the table to get a towel for him.

“Thanks,” Snape said, accepting the towel and rubbing his soaked hair. 

“Successful trip?” Harry asked sarcastically. Whatever it was for.

Snape gave him a slight glare and walked past him, towel wrapped around his shoulders. “Yes.”

No further elaboration came, so Harry huffed and returned to his seat.

“Where are you in your Occlumency studies?”

He stiffened. “Making progress.”

Snape walked past him, then rounded the table and took the seat opposite from him. “I think it is time we work through more difficult topics.”

Harry met his gaze defiantly, although he didn’t say anything. They both knew that Harry didn’t want to talk about Voldemort, the Ministry, or the Dursleys, because it would likely end in a fight

“No? What topic would you pick?” Snape asked, crossing his arms.

Harry stared mutely back, and Snape gave a knowing look, as if he’d guessed that Harry was out of easy subjects.

“Perhaps it would be best to begin where you began.”

The Dursleys, then. Harry cleared his throat and looked away. “Yeah, whatever.”

Snape narrowed his eyes but didn’t comment on his slight rudeness. “Childhood memories tend to feel different than more recent ones. Often, they hold stronger emotion, but the details are simplified and sometimes even cartoonish. In looking back and analyzing them, you may find that your perspective has altered.”

“Huh. The Dursleys still look pretty awful from this side of fifteen,” Harry mused aloud.

Snape looked briefly skyward, then settled his gaze on him again. “No doubt.” He sighed. “Begin by meditating.”

Harry reluctantly closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. Blankness. Just blank. Nothing. Field of black. That’s it. The anticipation of the coming discussion had brought forth other memories, however, and the dark behind his eyelids no longer seemed so welcoming. The concept of blank emptiness reminded him too much of his dark cupboard, and his eyes flew open. Snape was still watching him and noticed, raising an eyebrow quizzically. Harry looked away and wrapped his arms around himself.

“I can’t do it. Not right now.” Not when he’d been thinking earlier about how Snape was taking care of him. It made the emptiness of his childhood hurt a little more.

“What is it?”

“I just don’t want to.”

“And I don’t want to have fish for dinner again, yet here we are.”

Harry could not dredge up a smile at the running joke, and Snape sat forward. “I know it isn’t easy, but you need to work through it eventually. You will never be able to properly Occlude if you ignore such a vital portion of your memories.”

Harry snapped, “Fine,” and closed his eyes again. He’d rather just get it over than talk about it. He tried to pull up his memories and begin sorting them, but each memory made him more upset than the last, and without the calm, he wasn’t able to control them.

The first step to organizing your thoughts is to sort out your emotions. That was what Snape told him when they first started these lessons. You will need to trust me at least a little for this to work. Did Harry trust Snape?

“Yeah, I do,” he answered aloud. It didn’t surprise him anymore.

“What was that?”

Harry looked at him. Clothes shopping, Occlumency lessons, and several days’ hike through the Highlands were running through his mind. “I don’t want to think about the Dursleys because I just want to forget about them. I don’t want to sort those memories, because I don’t want to cement them forever in my head.”

“I think they’re already ‘cemented’,” Snape said, “if the idea bothers you so much.”

“Probably.” Harry sighed and sat back in his chair. “I can’t just sit here and bring up all those memories. It’s impossible to calmly view them and parcel them out as if they don’t really matter. ‘Oh, here I’ll put the memories of weeding all day in the heat. And here I’ll put memories of running away from Dudley and his friends! And here, I’ll put all my special, fond thoughts about my cupboard!’”

Snape blinked at him. “Your what?”

Realizing what he’d said, Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “My, er, cupboard. Under the stairs. I slept there when I was really little.” Ten years old wasn’t all that little, but he didn’t want to admit that aloud.

“Those-” Snape swore, leaning forward and resting his head in his hands. After several long beats, he looked up, dark eyes flashing. “Their treatment of you is inexcusable.”

Harry shrugged, uncomfortable but slightly warmed at Snape’s indignation on his behalf. “It’s not that bad.”

“Yes, it is,” Snape said firmly. He twisted his lips. “Harry, I’m afraid that your standards for treatment from adults aren’t where they should be. You’ve been sleeping on the couch for a month like some vagabond and haven’t mentioned it once.”

“The couch? That’s what you’re concerned about?” Harry asked, disbelief tinging his voice.

“You shouldn’t have to sleep there,” Snape argued. “I… regret that I’ve been unable to provide you with a bed before now. It is not because you don’t deserve better, but it’s taken a while to save up—”

Harry realized that Snape was genuinely bothered by this. “Sir, I haven’t said anything about it because I don’t care. I’m not some spoiled little kid,” he said, frowning.

“It would almost be easier if you were spoiled,” Snape said quietly.

“How would that be easier?” Harry demanded, still miffed that Snape would think that he cared about how much money the man made.

“Because then I could be mad at you.”

“What, so you’re mad at yourself instead because I know what it’s like to not have everything? Trust me, I know what neglect feels like, and this isn’t it.”

Snape’s flashing eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, knowing that Snape wasn’t happy with his tone but not caring. “Neglect isn’t when you don’t have something important. Neglect is when your relatives don’t care that you don’t have it.” He huffed, sensing that he wasn’t getting his point across. “The fact that you even bothered to bring it up: that’s the opposite of neglect.” He looked away from the still-disturbed look on Snape’s face. “I don’t mind not having a bed. I just don’t like that you think it makes you a bad guardian for not being able to provide one. If you just let me sleep on the couch ‘cause that’s all you thought I deserved, that’d be different. But even then, I don’t mind the couch. Don’t think that I’m some… some Malfoy who needs to have everything to be happy. As if I was upset about the couch, but just not saying anything ‘cause I was being noble or something.” He wanted to say more, but he couldn’t think of the right words. All he knew was that he’d mucked up what he’d meant to say. “Listen, Snape—”

“Do not address me like that.”

“Sorry, Dad it’s just kind of annoying when the only good guardian you’ve  ever had is acting like his best efforts aren’t good enough, when they are, simply because he’s trying.”

Snape’s face was a mixture of anger at his tone and shock at the sarcastic use of the term “dad”, but the anger won out when his brows drew together thunderously and he opened his mouth to retaliate. “You seem to be under the impression that I will tolerate disrespect outside of school grounds.”

Harry replied more calmly, but wasn’t ready to back down. “You seem to not have heard any of what I just said.”

They stared each other down for a long time. Finally, Snape rolled his eyes. “This does not pertain to the lesson."

“I disagree. I Think it has everything to do with it.”

Snape lifted his chin. “Oh, really? Why do you say that?”

“It’s all the same thing. It might alarm you to hear it, but you’re kind of taking their role right now. Feeding me, buying clothes, that sort of thing. Except you’re doing a better job of it than they ever wanted to. Not could, but wanted to. They easily could have bought me new clothes every year, and given me my own room before I went to Hogwarts, or any of the things they should have done, but they didn’t, because they never cared. And that’s what makes it hard to sit there all detached and sort those memories.”

Snape tilted his head slightly, anger fading into a look of thoughtfulness. He studied Harry, saying slowly, “You wonder why I, a teacher, would care more than your own family.”

“I told you that weeks ago,” Harry said.

“You did,” Snape agreed. “I believe the answer is not a matter of whose duty is stronger.”

“Then what is it a matter of?” Harry asked, frustrated.

“Common decency, perhaps?”

“The Dursleys never did have much of that,” Harry assented.

They slipped into silence, each in his own thoughts, until Snape spoke up.

“About the bed,” Snape began, giving Harry a look that told him not to get back into the argument of earlier, “I’ve made a deal with some men around the village. I will buy materials, and they will build a frame in exchange for dinner.”

“Why?”

“Because that is the sort of thing nice people do, I suppose,” Snape said, nose wrinkling slightly. “I will offer to pay them, but I doubt most will accept. As for the mattress, Amy Duncan will buy it, and we will pay for it in increments, with the rent.”

“Is that why you left earlier?”

“Yes.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

Snape huffed, as if frustrated by the gratitude, but luckily didn’t launch into another speech about how adults are meant to provide for children or what Harry “deserved”.

“Is there anything else about the Dursleys that makes it hard to Occlude?” Snape asked.

“Besides the fact that I get too angry to focus?” Harry asked wryly.

“That may be because you have yet to make peace with it,” Snape said.

“I’m not forgiving them,” Harry said flatly.

“I’m not asking you to. If you’re going to forgive anyone, forgive yourself for thinking their treatment of you was your fault.”

“What would I think it was my fault?” Harry demanded, even as something deep inside him ached.

“Because that’s what I used to think about my father,” Snape said.

Harry’s eyes widened. “Oh.” Snape admitting that to him was extremely unusual. He was normally so closed off about personal matters.

“You really want me to learn Occlumency, don’t you,” he realized, a note of wonder in his voice. If his intensely private professor would admit something like that just to help him make peace so he could learn Occlumency, it really said something about the man’s dedication to teaching him. Remembering his earlier thoughts about how Snape hated teaching, it made him feel even more… what? Looked after? Cared for?

Snape nodded, looking slightly out of place, and Harry felt a rush of determination. “Okay. I’ll try my best.”  He shut his eyes, his newfound resolve helping him focus. 

He wasn’t able to get through all of his memories of the Dursleys by a long shot, but even the small fraction he did manage took a lot of energy out of him. He found, to his surprise, that the cupboard was actually easier to work with. The conversation with Snape about common decency and the bed—Merlin, the bed… Snape really was worried about getting him a bed?—helped him to view the neglect with a bit more resignation. It wasn’t alright that they’d done that, but it wasn’t because he didn’t deserve a room of his own. He stopped after about twenty minutes, psyche raw after being so deeply immersed in what were still pretty unhappy memories. Still, he’d made some small portion of progress.

“It’s a start,” Snape said when Harry told him as much. “And starting is always the hardest part.”

Harry nodded listlessly. Snape started making dinner, recognizing that he wasn’t quite able to do so at the moment, and Harry watched him work with a sort of tired wonder. Was this really the same professor that had sneered down at him in that first potions class, look and tone so clearly expressing how much he loathed him and felt him to be beyond hope of teaching?

“What are you making?”

“Fish,” Snape smirked.

“Really?” Harry mock-gasped. “I haven’t had fish since yesterday!”

“A rare treat for your hard work, then,” Snape said, and Harry smiled despite everything.

“A month and I’m still not used to it,” Severus groused, clamping his hands over his ears. The wooden floor felt particularly cold on his bare feet that morning as he slipped out of bed, shivering at the contact.

Harry was already up, smiling and looking more chipper than anyone had a right to be at five thirty in the morning. “It’s not awful.”

Severus gave Harry a look that clearly said he thought him off his rocker. The teen only shrugged and smiled, going around and opening all the curtains around the cottage.

Severus slumped into an armchair, contemplating if it would be worth it to invest in a thick pair of earmuffs. “I suppose your roommates are just as loud, but I for one enjoy a little quiet in the early hours.”

Harry didn’t respond to this, picking up his practice chanter to start warming up before he left for his lesson. Severus inched away from him, eyeing the chanter hatefully.

As Harry began to “play”, Severus gritted his teeth and tried his best to tune it out. A glance out the window proved that it would be a nice day, for which he was grateful. The day before was when the others had intended to come build the bed frame, but the rain had pushed those plans back a day. It would have to be after work, but he didn’t want to wait until he was able to get a day off again.

Harry left for his lesson and Severus relaxed, ears ringing slightly as he closed his eyes for just a moment…

“Sir!”

He woke up abruptly to see Harry tapping his shoulder, looking at him curiously.

“I wasn’t sleeping,” Severus lied as he stood.

“Right,” Harry smirked, pointing at the breakfast on the table. Severus was about to protest, as he never ate breakfast, but decided against it when he saw the look on Harry’s face.

“How did your lesson go?” He asked, piling scrambled eggs on top of a slice of toast.

“Great! I got some new sheet music to practice at home.”

“Great,” Severus repeated sarcastically, taking a bite. Harry smiled triumphantly at getting him to eat. Severus rolled his eyes. “Some people will be coming over to work on the bed this afternoon.”

“How much dinner do I need to make?” Harry asked, understanding where Severus was leading.

“Enough for six,” Severus said. “The two of us, as well as Malcolm, Francis, Jack, and Callum.”

“Callum’s coming?”

“Jack is Malcolm’s brother, and Callum’s father.”

“Ah,” Harry said as Severus, finished with his meal, stood and grabbed his apron.

“Thank you for breakfast,” Severus said dryly, and Harry smirked.

When their shift was over, Franics and Severus walked back to the cottage together. Along the way, they passed Harry and Callum, who were carrying a bundle of beams together upon their left shoulders. Harry gave a wave as they trudged past, and Severus shook his head.

They followed the teens as they bypassed the front door and went around the side to the back. Malcolm and Jack were talking to each other.

“Good lads!” Malcolm exclaimed as they set the beams on the ground. He pulled out a pocket knife and cut the chords holding the bundle together.

“Dinner will be done in twenty minutes,” Harry said, walking to the back door. Severus followed him to the stovetop.

“What are you making?” He asked, peering into the large pot set on one of the burners. “Smells good.”

Harry lightly smacked his hand away. “It’s not done yet!” He lifted his chin when Severus raised his eyebrows. “I’m making tuna casserole, with conchiglie noodles, cheddar cheese, celery, and milk.”

“And tuna?” Severus guessed wryly, stepping back as the teen removed a pan of boiling noodles from another burner and poured its contents into a strainer in the sink.

“Duh. We haven’t had fish in a while, so I had to add something.”

Severus rolled his eyes and went back outside to find Malcolm and Jack debating about where to start.

“What size mattress are you getting, Sam?”

Severus resisted a lip curl at the nickname. “Twin.”

Jack nodded and picked up two boards. He measured them with a tape, using a pencil to mark each at a certain length before beckoning Callum over. “Hold this.” He sawed each board at the mark while Callum helped hold it steady.

Meanwhile, Francis and Malcolm were cutting flatter, wider boards into slats to hold the mattress in place. Feeling out of his depth, Severus stood there, wondering what he should do.

Jack glanced up and waved him over. He explained what they were doing, and Severus nodded in understanding. He and Callum held the two long sides of the frame up while Jack used an electric screwdriver to attach the ends perpendicular to another board.

“Have much experience with this, Sam?” Jack asked, fitting a different bit to the screwdriver.

“He’s a city teacher, Da," Callum said, looking embarrassed.

“Really? What’d you teach?” Francis asked, probably wondering why he would work processing fish in a shop if he had a degree in education.

“Chemistry,” Severus said. It was close enough.

“What are you doing here, then?” Jack asked, although he only sounded politely curious.

Malcolm answered for him. “That’s his own business. How’s Henry adjusting?”

“Well,” Severus said shortly.

“He’s a nice lad,” Malcolm said to Francis and Jack, before grimacing. “Too bad he took an interest in old McAullife’s bagpipes.”

Severus heartily agreed.

“He’ll get better,” Callum defended his friend, although he sounded a bit doubtful.

“Say, Francis,” Jack asked. “How’s it going with Diane?”

Francis turned slightly pink as Jack, Malcolm, and Severus smirked.

“How is it going?” Malcolm prompted.

“Fine,” Francis said.

Jack laughed. “So that’s why I saw you outside of her house at two in the morning last week?”

Francis spluttered as Callum hid a laugh behind a cough. “Her cat was sick!”

“So, of course, you had to help her tuck it into bed,” Malcolm said.

“That prissy old tom cat has been sick for the past four years,” Jack grinned. “I don’t see why you had to go do something about it now.”

They stopped teasing him when he became too flustered to respond, and Severus realized with a jolt that he was feeling relaxed. He didn’t participate much in the conversation, preferring to listen; but the easy camaraderie between the men, while foreign to him, was not unwelcome.

“S’ready!” Harry called through the open back door, and everyone was quick to go inside. They all spooned a portion of casserole into bowls before heading back outside to sit down in the grass. Severus followed the others’ lead, and Harry came out to eat with them too.

“Henry, I didn’t know you could cook like this!” Callum said, already half-finished.

Harry smiled and shrugged.

“I hear you’re learning to play the pipes, huh?” Malcolm asked, sharing a glance with Jack.

“Yeah,” Harry said. Whether or not he knew they were poking gentle fun at him, he seemed composed. “I know I’m not very good yet, but I’m not going to give up.”

“No one’s asking you to,” Francis said honestly. “Six in the morning though… you have to admit, it’s a little early.”

Harry let a smile spread across his face. “I’m not arguing.”

“Henry,” Callum said, “I just remembered something. We’re—” he indicated himself and Jack, “—going to go out on the skiff sometime this week.” He turned to his father. “Could Henry come with us?”

Jack nodded affably. “If his da is alright with it.”

Severus hesitated when all eyes turned to him. The thought of Harry out on a tiny boat, out of his reach should something go wrong, was not one that he felt comfortable with. His mind immediately went to the Death Eaters. Don't be ridiculous. He's no more protected here than on a boat. Secrecy is our weapon here, and it will be the same on the skiff. If anything goes wrong, he can use the portkey to Dumbledore's office.

There were no true logical reasons that he should be nervous; but, as Severus would someday realize, the worries of an adult for a child they care about aren't always concerning logic. 

He glanced at Harry, who was looking at him hopefully, and sighed. "I suppose."

"That sounds great," Harry immediately told Callum, before the boy could even ask.

They talked excitedly about their plans for the skiff ride while Severus grew more uneasy. He collected the bowls from everyone and took them inside to clean, doing his best not to think about everything that could go wrong.

To his surprise, Harry put his enthusiastic discussion on hold to help him. He followed Severus inside and they washed the dishes together as usual.

"You seem tense," Harry said conversationally.

"I don't want you doing anything stupid on that boat," he said immediately, giving him a narrow-eyed look. "You'll follow Jack's instructions to the letter, do you hear me? If anything goes wrong, you'll use the portkey."

Harry nodded with a confused smile. "Okay. It's not like I was gonna tie myself to the mast upside down or something. I don't know why you're freaking out."

Severus drew himself up. "I am not freaking out."

"Of course not," Harry demurred, not sounding like he believed it.

"The Gryffindor who fought a troll at the ripe old age of eleven? Stopped his teacher from stealing a dangerous magical artifact? Killed a basilisk by himself with a sword? Snuck out to Hogsmeade despite the mass murderer after him? Not only survived, but won the Triwizard Tournament years younger than should have been possible? Yes, I am concerned that you'll land in some kind of trouble."

Indignant, Harry turned back to the bowl he was drying without a word. Severus suppressed a chuckle.

When they'd finished, they went back outside to find Jack and Francis cheerfully arguing about a headboard.

"What's your preference, Henry?"

Caught off guard, Harry stammered, "I, er, don't mind either way."

They picked a style, and the bed frame was finished in the next half hour. Harry was looking at it slightly starry-eyed, and thanked them quite sincerely. They maneuvered it inside and positioned it in the corner near the bookshelf.

Severus was about to offer some sort of payment when Malcolm said, "Don't you dare reach for that wallet, Samuel Paine."

"I'll take any excuse to get a free meal," Franic added, with a lopsided grin. 

"This is what we do here, Sam. I dinnae ken what it was like where you came from, but here, we help each other out." Malcolm said, and he and Severus shook hands.

Where we come from? Back "home", I can't afford to trust anyone. Having led a fiercely independent life in which he had always depended solely on himself, to do otherwise went against every instinct and lesson life had taught him. However, he knew that to reject their offers, given as overtures of both help and friendship, would be to alienate the village. That was not something he wanted to risk. Also, some small part of him wanted to be more than just an outsider here.

"If you ever need my assistance, I will do what I can," he told the older man, and Malcolm nodded.

The four of them left. Harry and Severus remained outside for a moment, watching them go.

"That was really good of them." Harry shook his head. "It's strange, to see people just easily helping other people like that."

"I think it is something we might have to get used to," said Severus, thinking that both of them had little experience with the kindness of strangers.

"There are worse things to get used to," Harry said with a laugh.

"Like fish?" Severus said, going back inside.

"Like always looking over your shoulder," Harry replied more seriously, following him inside and shutting the door.

"Ah," Severus said, looking over at the bed. "At least now you can do so without getting a crick in your neck."

Harry flashed him a brief smile as he hurried over to inspect his new bed. Severus watched, chest muscles loosening. He was one step closer to having kept his word to take care of Harry, and one step further from his own father.

He could tolerate interdependence on other people, if this was the result.

Harry worked in the shop for two hours on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and practiced for half an hour every morning except for Sunday, which McAullife held as the Lord’s Day and spent the entire morning hour playing only hymns. Harry didn’t mind the break, and Snape seemed particularly satisfied on Saturday evenings to know that he wouldn’t have to listen to Harry’s occasional amatuer playing during breaks in between McAullife’s more experienced tunes.

“What in Merlin’s name is that?” came a voice behind him. Snape was looking over his shoulder at the music workbook that Harry was writing in.

“The circle of fifths,” Harry said bleakly, writing BEADGCF in the margins of the page. “Luckily there are no sharps or flats on the bagpipes.”

Snape sneered. “I have seen obscure alchemical equations that make more sense.”

Harry mournfully nodded, trying to think of an acronym for the order of flats.

Snape shook his head and walked away. Harry bent his head closer to the workbook, twirling the pencil in his hand. BE A Daring Gryffindor… Chasing… Flobberworms? He couldn’t think of a dangerous magical creature that started with “F” before he was distracted by a buzzing sound.

“If you could tear yourself away from your thrilling studies,” Snape said sarcastically, emerging from behind the privacy screen with enchanted parchment in hand, “the Headmaster has information regarding traps recently laid to ensnare the Dark Lord.”

Harry eagerly shoved the workbook away, sitting up straighter in his chair with anticipation as Snape dragged a chair next to him.

They sat side-by-side, watching as Dumbledore’s elegant script blossomed across the page, describing the Order’s latest efforts.

Harry was glad that Snape had decided to allow him in on these conversations, as he knew most of the Order wanted to keep him in the dark.

They had started small, sending a picture of a metamorphosed Tonks to the prophet from a forest in the south. Apparently, the Ministry had eagerly searched the area, but Voldemort hadn’t sent any Death Eaters.

“He was likely relying on information from his spies within the Ministry,” Snape explained when Harry looked at him questioningly.

Harry nodded.

The Order had then gone on to feed false information to the Ministry through the spy they’d sent, Percy, by making subtle hints about Spain. That was when Dumbledore made a strange comment that had Snape crossing his arms in front of his chest and looking away.

Without our pre-existing arrangement, we have had more difficulties in gathering information about the Bludger, but we believe it has veered far South in pursuit.

The Bludger was codename for Voldemort, something which Harry found very amusing but which never failed to elicit an eye roll from Snape.

“What does he mean about a pre-existing arrangement?” Harry asked Snape, who was still staring blankly at the countertop.

“The Order’s spy is out of commission,” Snape said flatly.

Harry had a flashback to Dumbledore and Snape standing in the hospital wing, and Dumbledore telling him, “Severus, you know what I must ask you to do.”

“You can’t spy anymore, because you have to watch me,” Harry realized, jaw dropping slightly.

Snape gave him an irritated look. “There is more going on than just you, Potter.”

Harry didn’t wince at this curt relapse in their unspoken truce, but he did frown and mirror Snape’s crossed arms. “I know that.”

Before it could grow into a full-blown argument, Dumbledore continued writing. The Snitch must be prepared.

Snape paused, then dipped the quill nearby into its inkwell and wrote, “Occlumency lessons?”

Yes. Bludger and Snitch sharing a pitch.

“Nice way of saying he keeps popping into my head,” Harry commented.

“Actually, you keep ‘popping into’ his head,” Snape said conversationally as he wrote back, “Already begun several weeks ago.” He smiled slightly as he wrote that, and Harry guessed that he was smug at being able to surprise Dumbledore.

Harry was staring at him, mouth ajar again. “What?”

Snape set down the quill and turned to him when Dumbeldore didn’t immediately respond. “You have been dreaming of the Dark Lord’s actions, and felt his emotion. If he were invading your mind, it would be the other way around. As it is, I believe you have been unconsciously using a form of Legilimency upon him. In your sleep, you are more vulnerable and have less control over your mind. During the day, you sometimes feel as he does, when his own mind is in less control during strong emotional outbursts.”

Harry felt a wave of horror wash over him while Dumbledore finally wrote, A pleasant surprise. How are they progressing?

Snape wrote, “Satisfactorily” as Harry managed to say,

“But, I’ve been practicing Occlumency, and the dreams are a lot less common.”

“In learning Occlumency, you are learning to control your own mind. Organizing it and learning how to navigate your thoughts has also developed both your subconscious and dreaming mind. As such, you have had less incidents of haplessly wandering down the connection in your sleep.”

Harry wanted to protest the term “hapless” but latched onto another thought instead. “Wouldn’t developing my ability to move in my own mind make it easier to go down the link?”

“If you were purposely attempting to do so, perhaps.” He leveled a very stern look at Harry. “Which you will not do, or I will be very displeased.”

Harry nodded hurriedly, having no intention of it anyways but also not willing to listen to Snape outline various unpleasant consequences.

“Otherwise, with greater control comes greater presence of mind.” The conversation with Dumbledore over, he rolled up the parchment and returned it to its place on his nightstand.

“And the more of my mind is organized, the more control I’ll have,” Harry said.

Snape came back to the table, dragging his chair back to its usual spot and sitting down. “Which is why we have been doing lessons daily.”

Ever since the breakthrough several nights ago, Harry had been steadily picking away at the tangled mess of childhood memories and Occluding them. It never got easier, but he was finding that the more memories he sorted, the less confused he felt about them. They were his family, they had treated him poorly, and while it wasn’t excusable, it wasn’t something he wanted to let affect his relationships with other people. They had already caused him enough pain. He wasn’t about to allow them to hurt him in his own mind.

Convictions, however, while not abandoned in theory, can still be shaken in practice.

They were half an hour into the lesson when he unearthed a slew of memories he’d tried his best to forget.

Sometimes, their insults hurt less than when they ignored him.

It’d always been clear that he wasn’t wanted. They took pleasure in berating him, in giving him chores, in seeing him hurt and making sure he understood that he didn’t belong with the rest of him. Yet, they seemed happiest when they didn’t see him at all.

It was Christmas morning, and he hadn’t even been let out to cook breakfast. They had chosen not to mar their perfect holiday with the sight of their unwanted nephew, so he pressed his nose against the grate and smelled the scents of Aunt Petunia’s Christmas casserole. Afterwards, he listened to the sounds of presents being opened, Dudley’s squeals, and Uncle Vernon’s hearty guffaws at their little tyke’s enthusiasm. Aunt Petunia turned on the telly, and they watched a Christmas movie as Harry brought his knees up to his chest. He let a spider crawl onto his finger and whispered, “Merry Christmas” to it.

Dudley had come home before him, he and his friends having beat up Harry and left him to peel himself off of the pavement. Limping home had took longer than usual. He entered by the front door, moving quietly. Neither Dudley nor Aunt Petunia heard him from where they were laughing in the living room. Harry guessed that Dudley had told her the story of the presentation he and Piers had given during maths. Harry walked down the hallway and watched them smile at each other, until Aunt Petunia caught sight of him. For once, she didn’t bark an instruction; only curled her lip slightly and turned away. He almost wished that she had told him to go mow the lawn, because then she would have at least spoken to him. He walked into the kitchen so he didn’t have to see them talking to each other anymore.

He was in his room. It was the summer before third year, and Aunt Marge was over. He’d escaped the living room, and could hear them talking and laughing downstairs. Since they’d been scowling at him before he left, it was obvious that they were much happier to not see him. He didn’t know what they were discussing, but that didn’t matter. It was clear that they didn’t want him to be a part of the conversation, because he would never be a part of their family.

They seemed like such unpleasant people, but during the times that Harry was out of sight and mind, they always appeared to be happy. They were normal, just like any other family. It had made young Harry wonder if it was him that was wrong. He brought the bad out in them, and it was his fault, because they weren’t like that when he was out of the picture. If they had always been surly and mean, then it wouldn’t have felt so personal.

“They were my relatives, but never my family,” Harry said.

Snape, used to listening to whatever new revelation Harry came to during these lessons, did not startle despite having been meditating himself. He didn’t know when Snape had become comfortable with being… well, the word that came to mind was vulnerable, around him; but at some point he had started meditating during the long silence during the middle of Harry’s lessons. He opened his eyes and waited to see if Harry would say more.

“They were awful to me, but nice to Dudley.”

“They singled you out.”

“Well, yeah. I was the one with magic, and the one they didn’t want. It’d be easier if they were awful to everybody, but it was just me.”

“All that proves is their remarkable intolerance.”

Harry traced a knot of wood on the table. “If I wasn’t there, they would have been happy.”

“Do you think they deserve to be happy, after the way they treated you?”

No, he didn’t, and that made him feel bad.

“They didn’t have to be angry or hateful towards you. They quite literally chose to be unhappy.”

Snape never coddled him or patronized him. When they talked about the Dursleys—or any problem, really—he always picked apart the issue with logic. Somehow, that made it easier for Harry to talk about it. If Snape had been sympathetic or pitied him, he never would have been able to stand it.

Ha! Snape, pity a Gryffindor? Snape, pity anyone? It’s not in his nature. He was always ready to use logic to settle an issue, but doesn’t bring emotion into it.

Harry wondered if he was like that because it was part of his personality, or if it was a result of Occlumency. Knowing that Snape almost always got his way in an argument, he sort of hoped it was because of Occlumency. If Harry could learn how to stay calm during a fight and use reasoning instead of anger (“BUT WHY SHOULD I KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON? WHY SHOULD ANYONE BOTHER TO TELL ME WHAT’S BEEN HAPPENING?” Even now, the words he’d shouted at his friends made him wince,) he was more likely to win. Containing his emotions had never been a strong point of his, but he had been better about it since the lessons began.

Another memory came to him then, of Snape in a rage, yelling at him and belittling him in class. He hadn’t been very logical or collected then, either.

The recollection made him wrap his arms around himself and look away, troubled. He’d forgotten that Snape had spoken until the man prodded, “Any stress they had about you was ill-founded and a result of their bias and prejudice.”

He’s one to talk about prejudice. The sullen thought startled Harry, as he hadn’t thought about Snape’s unfairness in a while. He blinked and nodded, not trusting himself to reply civilly.

Snape evidently decided that talking wasn’t getting anywhere, so he lapsed back into silence. Harry did several meditation breaths and forced himself to forget him for the moment and focus on the Dursleys again. He was only able to maintain this focus for another fifteen minutes before slumping back, mentally exhausted.

Normally after one of these hard lessons, he and Snape would read together or something to take his mind off of it. Finding himself unable to stay in his presence at the moment, however, Harry left the cottage to go for a walk. He could feel Snape staring at his back as he exited, but the man didn’t say anything, so Harry escaped the confines of the cottage and stood in the street for a moment, looking around.

It was evening, but the sun had not yet set. He figured he had at least half an hour before his curfew of dusk came around, so Harry picked a direction and started walking.

Things around the village were slowing down, but people were still out and about. McAullife was in a rocking chair on the porch of his store, and he waved affably to Harry as he passed. Francis, holding a small bunch of flowers, stood outside the doorway of a narrow two-story, looking nervous. Harry gave him a smile of encouragement, and Francis managed a nod before the door opened to reveal a rather pretty young woman at the door.

Harry meandered between houses, eventually reaching the stream that split the village in half. He walked down its grassy bank, hands in his pockets. Everything was so peaceful here. It was so easy to believe that there was no war, that he wasn’t on the run, that he was a normal kid without a fate and without a care. A kid with a dad who made friends with other villagers so he could have a bed, who woke him when he had nightmares and liked to make wry jokes about fish for dinner (again.)

Snape wasn’t Harry’s dad though, and he wondered when he’d forgotten that. Snape was just his professor. Not only his professor, but the professor, who mocked and ridiculed him for years.

A month of humane behavior didn’t erase all of that… did it?

He kicked at a rock, watching as it rolled through the grass and landed in the river with a soft plop. No, it didn’t.

The Snape of the village was almost like a different person from the one he’d known at school, and it was confusing him. Which one was the real Snape? This Snape was playing a role. So was the other one. There were Death Eater kids at school. Snape was a spy. It didn’t feel like a role. He was an arse, and he enjoyed it.

This line of thinking was only confusing him further, so Harry took a deep breath of sea air and lifted his gaze from his feet. The millwheel was up ahead, and he skirted around it.

The back door opened on one of the houses to the side of the river, and a young child ran out of it. Laughing her joy at life, she tumbled onto the grass, limbs splayed out, and pointed at a cloud drifting above.

Iona, who followed the little girl out, nodded and sat beside her. She was holding a sleeping baby and nodded at Harry.

Smiling a little at the scene, Harry nodded back and followed the stream all the way to the shore. He stood there at the mouth of the stream, watching the sun as it began its descent towards the sea. The wind tossed his hair in front of his eyes, and he shook it away. He probably did need that haircut that Snape kept mentioning.

A boat out on the water sailed lazily past, twin crests of water forming a wake behind it. Slowly, Harry turned to walk back to the cottage. Calmer, but no less confused, he decided to follow the time honored method of putting it off until later as he opened the door and stepped inside.

While Harry put off his small crisis, Severus was in a quandary.

It was the morning of the boat ride, and Harry seemed to have gotten over whatever mood he'd been in after the Occlumency session last night. He came back from his bagpipe lesson chattering about the boat ride.

"D'you think we might go swimming? Dudley used to visit Pier's uncle's house on the coast, and they would take their boat out into the middle of the ocean and go swimming."

Severus, feeling slightly green, pointed at the table for Harry to sit. He was making a larger breakfast than usual, knowing that Harry was the type of person to forget to eat if he was having too much fun. "I dearly hope not."

Harry ignored this as he pulled apart the chanter and placed the various parts in its case. "Callum said he'll show me how to work the stays. Those are the ropes on the sails."

Severus only nodded, trying to banish an image of Harry climbing the mast and falling into the ocean. He thought longingly of the teen's sullen silence yesterday. Starting with the bagpipes at 5:30 in the morning, there hadn't been a moment's peace.

"He said we'll bring a cooler of drinks and sandwiches. There's supposed to be a really cool cove about forty miles north."

Forty miles! Severus poured a glass of orange juice and set it on the table in front of Harry, wishing he had something stronger for himself.

"Thanks! He said there's a shipwreck underwater near the cove, and we can sail right over it and look down at it. It's deep enough that we won't wreck the skiff on the mast."

Severus took a deep, fortifying breath at the word "shipwreck" and flipped the eggs.

"I bet we’ll be able to visit the beach on the cove. Callum said there’s lots of neat shells on the beach, and there’s also supposed to be a cave at the end of the beach. You can't enter it during high tide or you'll get trapped, but we'll go during low tide.” Severus regretted every life decision that brought him to this point. He kept a blank expression on his face while Harry prattled on.

Having finished making Harry’s breakfast, he set the full plate down and was glad when the teen stopped talking and started eating.

Harry hurried through breakfast, as they were supposed to meet Callum and Jack on the beach at 7:30. As Harry ate, Severus launched into a lecture about all the worries that had plagued him during the past few days.

“You will be right in the sun for the whole day, so I expect you to keep drinking water. If you get dehydrated, you could pass out. Remember the time you ran off. You will put on sunscreen regularly as well. I do not want to have to make you a burn salve with our cooking pot.”

Harry made a face. Before he could argue, Severus continued.

“Follow every instruction Mr. Duncan gives you. He knows about boats, and you do not. If I hear that you’ve argued or disobeyed him, rest assured that this will be the last time you take such an outing. Any instructions are for your own safety.” He leveled a spatula at the teen. “Additionally, if you and your friend Callum indulge in any sort of alcoholic beverage, you and I will have a very serious talk about underage drinking, and I will not hesitate to give you a forceful reminder about responsible behavior. If you come home drunk, so help me, I will have you inside writing lines until you’re thirty.”

He lowered the spatula and smirked at the indignant look he received. “Mr. Duncan wouldn’t let us do that!”

Severus, not really knowing all that much about the younger Mr. Duncan (another one of his reservations), did not respond. He continued with his speech. “Any reckless, foolish behavior will not be tolerated.” He drew himself up to his full height, glaring down at the thunderstruck child before him. “And wear a hat.”

Harry spent a full two minutes spluttering. “I— what do you think I am, twelve? I’m not going to do anything stupid!”

Harry Potter emerged from the Chamber of Secrets, holding a bloody sword in one hand and carrying a destroyed diary in the other as a frail Ginny Weasley trailed alongside him. “Oh, really? Let us discuss your track record.”

Harry cut him off before he could get started. “It’s seven twenty-five.”

Severus sighed and followed him as he leapt from his chair and started for the door. “Hat!"

Harry grabbed a football cap off of the coat rack, rolling his eyes when he thought Severus couldn’t see.

Harry instantly stilled, darting a look at him from under the brim of his cap. Refusing to feel guilty, Severus kept his gaze fixed on the beach as they approached.

“Henry!” Callum ran over and he and Harry immediately began discussing their plans for the day. Jack came over to talk to Severus.

“We’ll be back sometime in the evening,” he said, nodding.

Severus pursed his lips but didn’t say anything.

“He’ll be fine, Sam. Don’t worry.”

“I feel so much more relieved.”

Jack had the audacity to find this amusing and clapped him on the shoulder. Severus glared at him, then turned to Harry. “Remember what I said.”

“Yes, Dad,” he said, managing to infuse the word with that maddening blend of sarcastic, (false) sincerity, and amusement that only he could manage. Severus watched his eyes, as if he could suss out any mischievous plans from their bright expression. Finally he huffed.

“Go on, then.”

“Bye!”

The three of them started towards a skiff tied to a nearby dock. Unable to watch any more, Severus turned and walked back home. He stopped there only long enough to grab his apron.

All day at work, he was distracted. Francis tried to draw him into conversation a few times, but Severus’ curt responses put an end to it. Francis looked at him curiously, but didn’t get mad, which Severus was perversely annoyed by.

After his shift was over, he left the building without a word. Stepping inside the house, it took a moment to realize what was wrong.

There was no smell of cooking food. Usually, Harry had dinner either waiting or almost ready by the time he walked through the door. Without it, the air seemed stale in comparison.

He stepped further inside, slowly closing the door behind him. He hung the apron over the privacy screen automatically, gaze panning the room.

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Falling into his armchair, he tried his very best to appreciate the silence.

Finally. Some peace. He had spent his entire adult life coming home to an empty house. He should be comfortable with the still atmosphere of the room. He told himself that he was. A chance to be alone.

A face appeared in the open window above the sink. “Samuel? It’s Amy. How would you like to come over for dinner?”

“I’d love to,” Severus immediately replied, rising to his feet, happy to get away from the oppressive emptiness of the room.

Amy met him at the door, and they walked to her house. Malcolm was in the front hallway, and shook his hand as he came in.

“You look worn,” he commented as Amy slipped past them and into the kitchen.

Severus shook his head. “I am fine.”

“Right,” Malcolm said doubtfully as they made their way to the small dining room next to the kitchen.

Amy emerged with a platter of brisket—brisket!—and set it on the table next to the other side dishes already there. Severus remained composed, but was very happy to have something besides fish to eat.

“You’re worried about Henry,” Amy said as they sat to eat.

“I—” he was about to protest, but they both gave him a look. “Yes.”

“Be a bit odd if you weren’t, considering what happened the last time you were on a boat,” Malcolm said.

Severus recalled their cover story and nodded. Having allegedly come close to drowning weeks before, it made perfect sense to the others that he should be anxious. As he, however, knew that it was a lie, it made no sense to him that he felt so on-edge. He thought a tooth might crack from how tightly his jaw was clenched.

There was a muffled kicking sound under the table, and Malcolm winced. Amy turned to Severus. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

He nodded and speared a piece of brisket, wishing that he had enough of an appetite to appreciate it.

“Jack is more comfortable on the skiff than on land. He’ll keep the lads safe.”

Severus forced himself to take a deep breath. “Of course.”

Malcolm then turned the subject to the goings on of the village. Conversation was mostly kept up between the two of them. Severus occasionally spoke, but they didn’t seem to expect him to talk much, for which he was grateful.

“Diane is considering remodeling her little bakery,” Amy said.

“Whatever for?”

“Seems to think it’ll bring in more customers. Personally, I think the antique look suits the place just fine.”

“More customers from where? Everyone in town knows how good her products are.”

After they finished eating, Malcolm and Severus walked down the harbor to see if the adventurers had returned yet. The skiff appeared momentarily on the horizon, and they waited on the beach as it drew closer.

Severus relaxed marginally as it docked, appearing none the worse for wear. It took about fifteen minutes for the crew of three to prepare the little boat for the night, and when they finally came down the dock to stand in front of the waiting Severus and Malcolm, their faces were all matching studies in tired contentment.

Harry looked so perfectly alright when he stepped off of the deck that Severus was almost insulted. All of that worrying for nothing, not even a nosebleed. He was almost tempted to walk away and forget the whole wasted day.”I see you’re alive,” he said blandly instead.

Harry flashed him a tired grin.

“He did well,” Jack said. “Picked up the ropes pretty quickly.”

Callum winced visibly at the pun. “It was fun. We should do it again, sometime.”

Severus nearly closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose when Harry nodded eagerly. They all parted ways.

Severus and Harry walked side-by-side down the road. “We had dinner on the boat,” Harry said.

“What did you eat?”

“Sandwiches again, but they were good.”

Severus opened the door as Harry launched into a detailed explanation of their day. He nodded along, partially listening, but mostly relieved that nothing terrible had happened.

“Are we going to do an Occlumency lesson tonight?”

“No. It is difficult to do properly when mentally exhausted.”

“I’m not that tired,” Harry said.

“I wasn’t talking about you,” Severus muttered.

Harry wasn’t to know it yet, but part of the reason Snape chose to take the mind maze approach to teaching Occlumency was because it required less suppression of emotion. Anyone who knew Harry knew that shutting down his emotions wasn’t something he excelled at. He often let his temper get the better of him in class, and had a smart mouth that at once both amused and vexed Snape. His friends would say no differently. While not exactly a fault, it would definitely make traditional Occlumency a challenge.

The creation of a mind maze depended on understanding one’s emotions rather than repressing them. Memories were noteworthy to a person in the associations and feelings attached to them. Rather than blocking a Legillimens from accessing any thoughts and memories (and the emotions attached to them) by hiding them behind a barrier and seperating one’s self from them, a person building a mind maze utilizes the emotions already binding certain memories together to construct more conscious pathways in the mind. It required a calm state to view and sort said memories, but a complete separation from any accompanying feelings was not required for success.

Therefore, Harry finally managed to finish Occluding his memories of the Dursleys without completely changing his personality by severing thoughts of his relatives from the wide range of associated emotions. Old hurts, not ignored, but acknowledged and moved past, gave way to a very long and painful Occlumency session wherein Harry sorted and arranged the whole lot of his limited but strong memories of Voldemort.

After a long, slightly philosophical debate about love, hatred, and the motives behind why they were fighting in the war, he kept hate out of the equation when he sorted them. It was, Snape told him, one of the most marked differences between the two of them. Where Harry consciously rejected hate, Voldemort chose it time and time again. Revolted by the notion of being similar to Voldemort, Harry was only too happy to do so.

"Very good," Snape said, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied expression on his face once the ordeal was over. "Now that you have finally organized your mind, we will move on to constructing the maze in more depth tomorrow."

Harry made no outward sign of his realization that no, he had not finished organizing his mind. Perhaps it was because he was completely drained. He forced himself to nod at Snape, and even managed a weak smile. Snape, pleased with his progress and not a little smug at his own success in teaching him properly, suggested a walk. Harry hmmed his acquiescence, and five minutes later they were traversing a flatter stretch of the hilly region east of the village.

In no fit state to converse with his traveling companion, Harry watched the stars beginning to dot the evening sky before them with tired eyes. 

“You did well,” Snape said quietly. Harry tried not to let how pleased he was at the compliment to show on his face. “I know that was difficult.”

Harry took a deep, cleansing breath of the fresh air around them. “Yeah. It was.”

They walked on in silence for some minutes until Snape spoke up. “I don’t suppose you have finished with the Art of War yet?”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “I read chapter eight, Variations in Tactics.” He knew he should have read more, but he had mostly been spending his hour of supplementary work every day studying the book on warding instead.

Snape didn’t appear to be in a quarrelsome mood today, however, for he only raised an eyebrow and reminded him to not neglect the book too much. Harry nodded sanguinely and they returned to the cottage.

A cup of tea, and then Harry was only too happy to collapse onto his (his!) new bed and sleep.

He was too mentally worn to focus on the blankness of meditation. He didn't even bother to try, knowing he wouldn't get very far before falling asleep.

Two hours later, Snape was shaking him awake from a particularly bad nightmare. He lay panting on the bed, the sheets sticking to his sweaty back.

There was a dip in the side of the mattress as Snape sat on the edge of the bed. Harry, trying to regain control of his heartbeat, sat up and turned so that he was side-by-side with him.

"I should have known that this would have brought back memories," Snape said, his voice low and rumbly in night's silence.

Harry, exhausted and done in, found himself leaning against Snape for support. Half expecting to be pushed away, but not really thinking the man would, he was gratified when an arm came around his shoulders.

"I'm never going to be free of him," Harry whispered, squeezing his eyes shut even though it was too dark for anyone to see the tears that threatened to run down his cheeks.

The arm around his shoulders tightened, and he allowed his head to fall back against Snape's shoulder. He was fifteen, but moments like this made him feel infinitely younger.

"I can't believe that," Snape said after a moment's thought.

"Why?" Harry asked flatly, the tears receding but replaced with a deeper weariness.

"We need to believe that we can win, because the alternative does not bear thinking about. Remember your readings. Drive, focus, and morale. The only sure way to lose is to go into this fight convinced that you will."

This was all good to hear, but his worries weren't completely allayed. "Yeah, but even if we win and he's dead, I'm never going to forget everything he did. And he'll probably do more awful stuff before that happens. I'm still gonna remember-" he broke off as the graveyard he had just dreamed of swam before his eyes.

Snape didn't verbally respond. Perhaps he understood that there wasn't really anything that could be said. He only continued to sit next to Harry and provide the comfort of silent companionship. He didn't let go of Harry once.

Harry inevitably woke up when McAuliffe began his morning serenade, but remained in bed for a few minutes, comfortably warm. Snape was out of sight, but he could hear the man's quiet breathing from across the room. He realized than an extra blanket had been laid over him sometime after he had fallen asleep. 

A moment later, Snape emerged from behind the privacy screen with the slow step of a half-asleep man. Harry felt guilty for waking him in the middle of the night and didn't meet his eye as he got up.

"How do you feel?" Snape asked the question in a slightly thick voice, followed by a yawn.

"Better," he answered honestly. 

He ran through his scales on the chanter, which quickly woke up Snape.

His lesson went well. McAuliffe thought he had progressed enough to try the full set of pipes for the last ten minutes, although Harry's temporary glow of satisfaction was darkened by the much worse quality of playing.

"It'll take awhile to adjust," McAuliffe said, unconcerned. "Keep practicing with the chanter at home."

Breakfast was ready when he came back, and he ate distractedly. On the way out, Snape said, "You've done very well with Occlumency. The worst part is over."

Harry waved goodbye but grimaced as soon as the door shut behind him. There was one last stronghold of unorganized memories to attack, and he was worried that they would be more difficult than even Voldemort.

At least he knew where he stood with the Dursleys and Voldemort.

He hurried through his daily assignments, knowing he had a lot of work to do before that evening's lesson. He finished quickly, and decided to do his supplementary hour that evening between dinner and the lesson.

Putting his school books aside, he sat in a cross-legged meditation pose on his bed. Ten minutes of measured breaths, and he entered a of light trance. With a sort of resignation, he finally addressed the one subject that confused him most.

Snape.

He'd learned that it was impossible to sort all of his memories about something without also sorting his feelings about it. Usually those feelings he couldn't immediately figure out came up during the process, so he allowed hundreds of memories to flood over him.

Snape was in class, leaning over him and vanishing his potion with a sneer. Snape was in the hallway, taking points for poor dress because his tie was slightly askew from running upstairs to get a book he'd forgotten. Snape handed back his homework, at least half a bottle of red ink marking the page up and a large D at the top.

Snape stood on the crest of a hill, a hand raised over his eyes to shield them from the sun's glare as he scanned the Highlands for signs of danger. Snape held a board while Jack Duncan nailed a crossbeam onto his new bed. Snape wrapped an arm around Harry as he leaned into him, doing his best to comfort him after a bad nightmare.

Harry's eyes snapped open. There was no way he could sort this out. Waves of confusion were crashing over him, rocking his peace. To do it on his own would be impossible; to bring the issue up with Snape even more so. Yet, he had to try. He knew how important it was for him to learn Occlumency. Last night's dream had been a painful reminder of the enemy he faced. 

There was nothing for it. He had to try.

Start at the beginning. Regrounding himself with a few measured breaths, he brought up his very first memory of Snape. It was not a pleasant one, and set the mood for the next four years' worth of ridicules and sneers. It was a relief to reach the day he was taken away from the trial by portkey.

In reviewing those first few days of travel, he was surprised to remember that Snape's behavior had been more in line with the professor than the man of the village. He had still been condescending and mean. Somewhere along the way since, Harry had grouped those early days with the Snape he'd more recently known. Perhaps it was because, manner aside, Snape's actions there had been meant for Harry's benefit.

Realizing he was getting off-track, he continued calling up memories of the village and living here. Much more pleasant to think about, and more perplexing. In the refreshed context of his behavior when Harry was younger, it hardly made sense. Having lived a life where kindness was the exception rather than the rule, the new Snape was hard for him to figure out.

Once he had sorted through all the memories, he began to put them together. Starting with the earliest, he formed them into a tunnel like the one under the shrieking shack.

When he reached the "new" memories, of everything since the trial, he encountered a problem he had never had before. He added the first new memory onto the tunnel, but it wouldn't stick. It kept drifting away and clumping back with the others. He continued to try with several different new memories, but none of them worked.

Frustrated, he secured the tunnel of old memories and opened his eyes. An analog clock on the wall in the kitchen showed that several hours had passed, and he realized with a start that he had missed lunch. He stood to get something to eat, only to find his thighs and calves stiff from sitting in one position so long. His walk to the fridge was more of a wincing limp.

Armed with a sandwich, he sat at the kitchen table to eat and think about what might have gone wrong.

His eyes fell on the stack of supplementary reading. Near the bottom was the book on the mental arts. Quickly finishing his lunch, Harry grabbed it and flipped it open to the Occlumency portion. There was a chapter dedicated solely to the mind maze method. He and Snape hadn't talked much about the other methods, and Harry didn't really care enough to look them up. He flicked to the chapter and began scanning the page.

He couldn't determine what went wrong the first read through, and was forced to go back to the beginning and read it more closely. His attention wandered until getting to a paragraph about the emotional ties connecting different memories. Part of the reason memories of the same topic were always grouped together was because they usually hold similar emotional connections.

Thoughtfully returning the book to the pile, he considered how the new memories of Snape wouldn't stick to the old ones. It was as if there was nothing to hold them together like there had been between all the other memories he had Occluded before. Was that why? Because the newer memories had vastly different emotional ties than the old ones did?

He returned to the bed, this time lying down instead of sitting cross-legged, and closed his eyes. He meditated, then quickly found the grouping of newer Snape memories. He made one last, vain attempt to add them to the old ones, then gave up and started fresh with another pathway. This was much more enjoyable, as the newer memories were so much more positive. There were a lot of worries and anxieties, arguments and annoyances, of course; but running through it all was an undercurrent of their improving relationship and a growing conviction that he might, for once, be living with someone who cared about him.

The crowning glory of these newer memories was last night's comfort after his nightmare. Not only had Snape given it, but Harry had craved it. Not in a general way, but he had specifically wanted Snape. And the man had been there.

This, if nothing else, proved to Harry that his own feelings were different. He'd been aware for a while that he was starting to like Snape, but being grateful for a bed and wanting physical comfort after a bad dream were very different things. Harry didn't know when he'd ever been held by a caring adult after a nightmare.

It was easier than he could have thought—perhaps easier than it should have been—to Occlude these newer memories into their own, separate pathway. When he finished, he opened his eyes with a much more satisfied feeling. It was about time to start dinner, so he got up and began making it.

It really was like knowing two different people. One he despised (and the feeling was mutual), and the other was… if not a parent, then perhaps a guardian. Maybe even a mentor.

He sprayed cooking oil onto a pan with a smile. A small part of him felt slightly uneasy, although he wouldn't allow himself to consider why, but mostly he was satisfied. The very last of his memories had been sorted. Now, when Snape walked through the front door, he would be ready for whatever new exercises the man threw at him.

When he arrived home, Snape found the smell of frying salmon steaks waiting. The lines on his face lightened slightly as he greeted Harry, who smiled back with more enthusiasm than he ever had yet.

The public pool in Cokeworth, while not the cleanest of places, had been a safe one. The manager, who was also daily present as lifeguard so she didn't need to hire one, was a woman of middling age whose feminine name of Shirley fit as little on a broad-faced, sharp woman as Severus' grand one had on a skinny, bruised child. Despite her often downright scary persona, the young Snape boy was often found within the pool's stained, lead-paint walls that dripped constantly with perspiration from the room's humidity.

Shirley Bordine had begun standing in for her husband more and more frequently as his early Parkinson's progressed. When he died at the age of 48, she had gone to work the next day as though her limited claim on the job was assured. Which, in truth, it was. In the months preceding his death, the position had become hers in all but contract as she was there almost every day. She had truly loved her husband, but hers was a disposition that found comfort in routine and familiarity. Therefore, she could be relied on to be present at the pool even within three hours of Frank Bordine's funeral.

No one contested her right to continue as manager, so by the time Severus was a boy, she was as much a part of the scenery at the pool as the life preserver leaning listlessly against the wall.

The pool itself was unexceptional. Grimy, with a filtering system that to this day was probably the same one Severus remembered as a child (and it had been old then), even the less-than-posh people of Cokeworth tended to find little value in it. The walls were of an indeterminate greyish color, and the underwater lights in the sunk-in pool were crusty from years of salt buildup. It was in the classic bathtub-style lap pool, where the gutter and water level are more than a foot below the edge of the pool.

Severus had been chased into the pool by some bigger boys in the neighborhood when he was seven. The manager had stood from her little stool with such a terrifying look that the four boys took one look at her and scampered.

Severus had moved to run too, but she had grabbed the back of his shirt with one heavy paw and pulled him back. He had flinched violently and thrown his hands up in front of his face, and she had immediately frozen.

“What were they chasin’ you in here for, boy?” she had asked.

Severus had only a shrug to give in response.

“Well,” she said, taking a couple of steps back until he felt more comfortable, “they aren’t welcome.” Severus only nodded and began to walk out, and she called after him, “but you are!”

He had only nodded a response and fled, not returning until a couple of months later, when his father came home in the middle of the day, drunk, and his mother had told him to get out of the house before he was seen. That was before he’d had Lily; and not wanting to run afoul of the gang again, he had found himself entering the pool room once more.

Ever since then, he had found refuge in the pool whenever he needed to be away from… well, anyone, really. Nobody thought to look for him there, and if they did, he could sink out of sight from anyone who glanced into the room from the door.

As a consequence, he taught himself how to swim under the careful eye of Shirley, and although she once had to jump in when he overdid it and began to pass out, he was soon a competent swimmer.

He had continued visiting the pool during his summers after he turned eleven, eager to get away from the house and Lily not always being available. As an adult, he still visited the pool on a regular basis during summer break to maintain his fitness when there were no long school halls to stalk.

During the war, the public pool had been a good place for him to retreat to if he wanted to escape either of his masters. Even after the first war ended, he continued to maintain the habit, knowing that he couldn’t afford to grow stationary in case the Dark Lord should return.

Throughout this all, Shirley Bordine remained both manager and lifeguard. She had been there to fish him out when his Dark Mark blazed with pain during a flip turn and he took in a lungful of water. She had assumed it was a cramp, and sent him home for the day even before he could make an escape and run home for his Death Eater robes.

The result of all this was that, to Severus Snape, the dingy public pool in Cokeworth became a small but important part of his life and history. It was also why he had chosen it for his own first foray into learning this particular technique of Occlumency many years ago.

“Lucid dreaming occurs when you become aware, during a dream, that you are asleep. When you do so, it becomes possible to control different aspects of the dream. Characters, plot, setting. These become manipulatable.”

“That’s cool,” Harry said. “How does it help with Occlumency?”

“Not only does it aid you in gaining control over nightmares, it also helps you develop your dreaming mind and more directly exercise control over the subconscious. Lucid dreaming comes most naturally to people with a more developed prefrontal cortex, a part of the brain highly stimulated by the Occlumency we’ve already been doing. It shouldn’t be too difficult to do. I had my first Occlumency-induced lucid dream when I was twenty-one.”

“What was your first Occluded lucid dream?”

“I dreamed that the Dark Lord came to a public pool I used to frequent, and that I drowned him.”

Harry stared at him for a moment. “That’s… cheery.”

Severus shrugged one shoulder. “Sometimes, one needs to see one’s self fighting their demons and winning.” He had always felt a sense of control in the pool, a feeling of physical powerfulness as he propelled himself down the lane, the muscles throughout his whole body working to increase his speed. It was a place where, as a child, he had been safe from bullies and his father; and where, as an adult, he had a place to temporarily escape the duties of his many roles. For an exercise in learning control, it had seemed right in all of its aspects.

Harry pondered that for a moment, before nodding. “That makes sense.”

Severus looked at the teen in silence for a moment. He was sitting up, alert, but the dark circles under his eyes were not the only sign of exhaustion that Severus could see. Not only had his sleep been interrupted by a bad nightmare, but the evening before had been a very difficult lesson. Coming to a decision, he nodded. “For your lesson tonight, you will read the chapter on lucid dreaming in the mental arts book. No doubt you have not even touched it since I brought it home, but there is valuable information within regarding Occlumency exercises. I have not had you read from it for a lesson before now, as the creation of a mind maze is a deeply personal experience that no book can facilitate. A mentor is almost always required for anyone to succeed in the attempt. Now that you have finished Occluding all of your memories, however, we will be using it more frequently.”

The teen blinked several times. “We’re not going to have a lesson tonight?”

“Not a practical one, no.”

Anyone else might have missed the relieved slump that took over Harry’s shoulders. Severus noticed and smirked. “I think you rather deserve it, after yesterday.”

Harry nodded and reached for the book. Severus took up another of Josh’s studies, and the rest of the evening was spent in comfortable silence as each read their respective works.

“Blast!” Severus exclaimed, woken from a dead sleep by Highland Cathedral.

Harry snorted across the room.

“At least he knows how to play without swerving off-pitch,” Severus groused. He half-stood, half-fell out of bed and exited his sleeping area to find Harry stretching and looking unperturbed at this pointed comment.

“I’m sure I’ll improve with years of practice too,” he said, smirking slightly.

Severus had a vision of himself, old, grey, and with a beard longer than Dumbledore’s, sitting in his armchair and clamping age-spotted hands over his ears as a middle-aged Harry practiced the bagpipes (still playing atrociously). “Your dedication is truly inspirational.”

“The first full song I want to learn is Highland Laddie. That’s the song the Mad Piper-”

“Played at Normandy. Yes, I recall.”

“McAuliffe said it’s a song every piper should know.”

“Did he?” Severus asked, not really caring about the answer, but humoring him nonetheless. Harry had seemed in oddly high spirits ever since he had come home from work yesterday. It appeared that some slight hesitation or worry holding the teen back was gone.

“It’s played at a lot of competitions.”

Severus froze, keeping his face averted so Harry didn’t see the horror washing across his expression. “You want to compete in competitions, do you?” he asked, voice as casual as he could manage. He would hate every minute of it, but Severus knew he would go to every single one anyways.

“Not really,” came the glib reply, and he relaxed.

He was gone in a moment for his lesson, and Severus found himself pacing the cottage.

Less content than ever to sit still and have a cuppa before making Harry breakfast and heading off to work, he stopped briefly at a window. The sun would not rise until after 7 nowadays. Fall was approaching. It was now the early days of October.

Instead, the hills beyond were illuminated by that thin grey-white light that seemed almost a substantial mist preceding true dawn.

It would soon be two months since they arrived here. While he had found a mild tolerance for his job cleaning fish, it was hardly what he wanted to call his life’s work. It was during quiet moments like this that he felt a bit adrift, remembering that his role as a spy was at an end. His purpose was taken from him.

He’d found some new purpose in taking care of Harry. It would have to be enough, but at this moment, he was feeling particularly restless.

A glance at the clock. 6:07.  He had at least fifteen minutes before it would be time to start breakfast.

He set down his half-full mug and grabbed his swimming trunks (at some point, he had been coerced into buying them. The circumstances escape recollection now,) and a towel.

The beach at the edge of the village was perhaps the most active part of the whole community. Fishermen were beginning to set out, or at least begin preparing their boats at this time. He headed a short jog south to a flat, grassy area. Completely alone, he shed his clothes and quickly donned the swimming costume, wading out into the sea before he could think better of it.

The water was almost intolerably cold, but he quickly dove all the way under and did a few dolphin kicks before cresting the surface again and breaking into a brisk front crawl parallel to shore.

Two months out of practice, and he was obliged to slow down slightly. As he warmed up, the water was slightly more bearable, but not much. He soon turned and swam back to where started.

Staggering up to the shore, he quickly wrapped himself in a towel and checked the watch he’d left amongst his clothes. There was time. He sat on the grass and stared out at the horizon. The village was set on the west coast, and some stars still lingered right above the water. The grey mist of light was now more white than grey as the sun came closer to rising.

The wind tossed his wet hair in front of his face, and he brushed it away with a hand. Fingers still tangled amongst black strands, he rested his elbow on his knee and rested the weight of his head on his palm.

Invigorating. That was the word. The water, while cold, was invigorating. A sharp wake-up from melancholy, depressing thoughts. He realized what an opportunity he’d missed. Just because he was no longer at Spinner’s End didn’t mean he had to give up every old routine. It would almost have been familiar if open swimming wasn’t so unusual for him.

It would be a way for him to stay fit, to keep in shape during their time here. Normally he would practice dueling in a special room in the dungeons prepared for the purpose, or else in the cellar at his house.

He wouldn’t be able to continue swimming for long, however. Every day, the daylight was shorter and the water colder. He doubted the water would be tolerable even for short periods very soon.

He redressed quickly and jogged home, both for the exercise and to warm up some more. He reached the cottage just as the sound of poorly-played bagpipes ceased and Harry presumably began walking back.

“Smells great!” Harry said, walking in to the scent of frying potatoes.

“How did it go?”

Harry winced. “That was my first try at Highland Laddie. I know, I know, it’s bad. My notes are about as clear as dogwater.”

Severus snorted, but was interrupted before the sarcastic response made its way past his lips.

“Have you been swimming?”

Severus looked over his shoulder, eyebrow raised, to see Harry pointing at the drying swimming costume thrown carelessly over the privacy screen to dry.

“I might have taken a dip,” he said idly.

“Good,” said Harry, sounding strangely satisfied.

“Why?” he asked, turning around more fully, curious as to why the teen should be so pleased.

“Because we all need to have some fun, Professor,” Harry grinned.

“Nonsense,” Severus scoffed, turning back to the stovetop, despite how much better he had felt since the quick workout. “I don’t do ‘fun’.”

“You dunked me under the water that one time for fun,” Harry reminded him.

Severus had no response to give. Harry, knowing it, gave him a cheeky smirk as Severus handed him breakfast. As Severus left for work, the teen called, “Have fun!” just before the door shut.

As he walked away, Severus rolled his eyes and pretended he wasn’t smiling.

It was the second task again, but the stands were completely empty. Harry sat at the edge of the platform on the shore, his feet resting in the shallows of the Black Lake as he gazed out across the water. Silence reigned, except for a slight buzzing to his right.

"Hello, Harry, blub blub blub I see that y- gurgle found someone new gloop gloop to die for you."

He and Snape then started playing water polo with an inflated Death Eater mask, the eyes crossed out with a Muggle sharpie into two cartoonish Xs. The rest of the Order flew by on their own insect mounts, and Tonks came by on a big dragonfly to say, "Wotcher, Harry?" as the mask sailed high, high up into the sky…

Harry sat up abruptly, breathing heavily. "That was weird."

Snape flipped the page of his journal unconcernedly. "How did it go?"

"I realized I was dreaming, but I never gained control over it. I got… distracted." In truth, he had been too curious about how the events would unfold to think about gaining the lucid dream state. "I didn't land in the memories I Occluded, either."

Snape took a sip of tea. "You lost focus at the last moment, then. Not unexpected, and not a problem. Simply try again."

Harry shook his head and swung his legs over the side of his bed. Snape sat in his armchair by the fire, turned slightly so he could have a better view of Harry as he tried the new exercise.

The best way to purposely induce a lucid dream upon command, Snape had said, was to immerse oneself in the Occluded memories of whatever subject one wanted to dream about. Harry, having gone down his Quidditch memory-tunnel as he drifted off and then dreamed about the Black Lake, had clearly not succeeded. "I need a moment."

Snape looked at him for a beat, then nodded and returned his attention to the journal. Harry stood and walked to the kitchen, preparing his own cup of tea as he pondered the dream.

It had been… a little dark. One might even say grim. Forcefully holding some under water until they drowned… nothing worse than other dreams he'd had, sure. Still, he felt slightly uneasy as he started the kettle to boil.

"You said your first lucid dream was drowning Voldemort," Harry said, hoping for some clarity about his own dream.

"Yes."

Harry wrapped his arms around himself and leaned against the counter. "Why did you pick the pool? Why not your classroom, or something else? Why kill Voldemort there?"

Snape tossed another log onto the fire and settled back into his chair. "It was after I had become a spy, and before the first war ended. Working as a double agent, I never knew when I might be found out, when I would be killed. It left me feeling powerless. Defenseless. There's something about swimming… the feel of the water rushing past, the burn in your muscles as you push yourself to the limit. It gives you a sense of control and self-command. Since I intended to dream about fighting against the thing that made me feel powerless, a place that always made me feel strong was a natural setting."

Harry didn't respond for a while, pouring himself a cup of tea when the kettle began to whistle. He wrapped his hands around the comforting warmth and carried it to the sitting area. Snape watched him as he settled into a corner of the sofa, bringing his feet up and pulling a blanket over. When he spoke, it was quiet and introspective. "I wanted to dream about Quidditch. When I gained control, I was going to fly away from Hogwarts and over the Highlands."

"Why that in particular? Simply because you love Quidditch, or for a deeper reason?"

Harry took a sip of the tea, wincing as it burned his tongue. “Because when I fly, I feel free.”

Snape grew very still in his armchair. “Do you feel trapped now?”

Harry shrugged. “Not here, in the village.” He frowned. “Sometimes it’s hard to remember the danger here. It seems so safe, but it’s not. Back… there,” he meant the wizarding world, “everyone expects me to be their hero. To fight their battles. And Voldemort won’t leave me alone. I’m always stuck fighting him. Don’t get me wrong! I want to fight him. He killed my parents, and he needs to be stopped. But even if I didn’t want to fight him, I know that I wouldn’t have a choice anyways.”

“You always have a choice.”

“Running away isn’t a choice.” He felt a twinge, as sometimes he considered their hiding out in the village as running away.

“No,” Snape agreed. “But how you go into the fight is a choice.”

“You mean like how I chose not to hate Voldemort when I Occluded my memories.”

“Yes.”

Harry took another sip of tea, finding it only slightly cooler. “Still.”

“Still,” Snape echoed.

They sat in peace for a while, until Harry asked, “Who taught you Occlumency?”

Snape shrugged. “I studied it from books when I was younger, doing the exercises for breathing and focus. My mother knew Occlumency as well, so she taught me how to build shields to protect my thoughts from intrusion. I had a natural talent for the mental arts, as well as controlling my emotions.” He grimaced. “My temper is the one thing that often slips past my shields. After I turned spy, the Headmaster taught me a lot more, such as studying symbolism in the mind. He was the one who introduced me to lucid dreaming. I also learned Legilimency from him.”

Harry paid rapt attention. Snape seemed to be in a rare, forthcoming mood. Harry didn’t think he’d ever heard him mention his mother before. He was tempted to ask more, but settled for a nod.

“So, if you did not lucid dream about flying, what did you dream about?”

Harry looked at him, remembering the man’s dangerous smile as he tried to drown Voldemort in the dream. “Nothing important,” he lied. He had a feeling there was a lot of important symbolism in what he dreamed, but didn’t want to talk about it.

If Snape knew he wasn’t being honest, he didn’t say anything. Harry gathered up the blanket in his arms and moved to sit on the floor in front of the fire. Snape returned to his journal, and Harry sipped at his tea as he stared into the flames.

Was he capable of killing Voldemort? Not magically or anything like that, but could he bring himself to end a life?

Voldemort killed Cedric. He killed your parents. He killed that old man.

Did he deserve to die? Yeah, probably. Harry just didn’t know if he wanted to do it. It wasn’t likely to be up to him, anyways. What chance did he stand against Voldemort? Harry didn’t need to worry about the ethics of killing Voldemort, because he wasn’t going to get the chance. Not personally, at least. There were other ways of fighting than facing off wand-to-wand during a battle.

He glanced at the Art of War, but felt too comfortable to get up and study it. Instead, promising to himself he’d get back to reading it tomorrow, he stretched out to lay on his side in front of the fire.

He woke up partially as Snape picked him up, blanket and all.

“You can’t sleep on the floor,” the man said as he carried Harry to his bed.

“ ‘m no’ old,” he yawned. “I’d be fine.”

Snape snorted. “Go to sleep.” He lowered Harry onto the mattress. Harry curled up on his side, scrunching up his face at the now cold sheets. A hand might have brushed his hair, but he wasn’t sure in the fog of sleep. 

He dreamed again, but it wasn’t anything too deep. Nothing about Voldemort, Quidditch, or freedom. Instead, he was walking through a safer part of the forbidden forest with Buckbeak in the evening, the golden light trickling through the green leaves in bright beams that left spotted sunshine on the mossy ground.

It had been the last time Mr. Duncan would take out the skiff for the year. Harry and Callum had wanted to go back to the cove, so his last trip had turned out very much like his first. He was getting better at helping manage the stays, but the wind was bitingly cold and his fingers sometimes went numb.

Snape was waiting for him on the shore, as always. He briefly brought a hand out of the front pocket of his hoodie to wave at him before stuffing it back inside.

"Bit chilled?" Snape asked sarcastically, raising an eyebrow. Harry ducked his head further between his shoulders, nodding once. "Come on, then."

They walked back to the cabin. Snape held the door open, and Harry hurried inside.

"While you were away, I was able to use magic without alerting the trace. I made an area for you to practice the pipes over there."

Harry was touched. He looked to the corner where Snape was pointing, near the bookshelf. A music stand and stool were set up, waiting for him. He grinned. "Thanks."

"My pleasure," Snape said, and Harry finally noticed the glint of triumph in his eyes. "It has silencing charms on it."

Harry snorted but went over to investigate anyway. "So you really put up silencing charms?" Harry asked.

"Did you say something?" Snape asked, raising a hand to his ear. "No? Ah, peace at last." Smirking, he sat down in his armchair and flicked open a journal.

Harry rolled his eyes and pulled out the practice chanter. He ran through his scales a few times, then set it aside for later. He wasn't really in the mood to practice.

Hopping off the stool and walking over to the sitting area, he wondered if Snape would be annoyed at an interruption to his reading.

"Spit it out," Snape said, turning the page.

Godric, he was like a mind reader. Actually, he technically was a mind reader. "I was just, erm, wondering. What's going on back at Hogwarts, and with the Order? Dumbledore hasn't written in a while."

Snape slowly lowered his book. "According to our last communication, they've been leading both the Ministry and the Dark Lord after false trails. They haven't stopped looking for you, and a rather large reward has been offered for any information leading to your capture."

"What if they send my picture to the muggle world?" Harry asked, a swell of horror filling him. "Like with Sirius. I know the village is isolated, but they still get the paper, and some people have a telly."

Snape looked perturbed. "If they haven't done so by now, let us hope that they will not think of it in the future."

Harry was not particularly reassured. "We won't be able to stay here anymore if they do, will we?"

"No." The word was slowly said, with an undertone of displeasure at the idea. "We won't." He looked at Harry closer, then smirked. "How about that haircut?"

Harry backed up a couple of paces. He liked having his hair longer. It was slightly less untidy with the extra weight pulling it down, although it seemed to have compensated by being extra wavy in a wild sort of way.

It didn't have anything to do with the fact that Snape also wore his hair long.

"Nah, I'm good."

"You look like a wild man from the mountains." Snape stood, advancing a pace.

"With long hair, I look a lot different from the pictures the Ministry might put out," he argued. Besides the hair, he had grown a bit and filled out some from a combination of sufficient eating and a more outdoors, active lifestyle. Even his skin had tanned more than usual. The trademark scar, green eyes, and James Potter face hadn't changed. At least this way he might not be instantly recognizable to a stranger. Anyone looking too closely would have no doubt it was him, but he couldn't help that without magic to change his appearance.

Snape stared at him with narrowed eyes before slowly sitting down. Harry wisely kept the smug look off of his face. Not about to test his own fortitude for long, however, he sat on the couch and pulled The Art of War to take notes.

The scratching of his pen served as counterpoint to the crackling in the fireplace and the occasional rustle of paper as Snape turned a page. His skin felt a bit crusty from the saltwater spray, but he was too plain tired to drag out their huge washtub and fill it with water bucket by bucket. He'd do it tomorrow while Snape was at work.

As he laid in bed that night, he struggled to clear his mind. A headache he'd had for several hours—likely a result of too much sun and too little water—was proving harder to ignore in the dark than during evening study.

"Hey, Professor?"

"What."

"If a tree falls in the for—"

"Shut up."

"Okay."

"Occlumency, Harry."

"Yes, sir."

With a smile, Harry turned over and closed his eyes again. He easily settled into meditation breathing, the act almost a reflex after doing so time and again. He immersed himself in his Occluded memories of sailing on the ocean, feeling a smile on his face as he remembered the ocean breeze on his face.

His headache was gone by the time he woke up, which was good, because a pounding head and the bagpipes do not go well together. At his lesson, he managed to play completely through Highland Laddie for the first time on the full pipes, although it definitely wasn’t up to McAullife’s skill level. Completely out of breath by the end of the song, he sat down on the grass to rest. He pulled his coat tighter around his shoulders—it seemed to be getting colder by the day—and listened as McAullife played it again. He paid extra attention to the changes in tone, and how the man’s fingers seemed to flit on and off the chanter for the grace notes. He smiled briefly, wondering if the rest of the village had come to appreciate McAullife’s obvious talent at the instrument after hearing Harry’s less-than-ideal playing.

“Go on with ye,” McAullife said, glancing at a pocketwatch. “Your da will be wondering where you’ve got to.”

“Alright. Thanks!” Harry said, slinging his bag with practice chanter and music books over his shoulder as he sprinted down the hill towards the cabin.

The run left him panting less than it might have a few weeks ago. McAullife’s comments about breath support came back to him. He did seem to get less easily winded these days.

“Set down your things,” Snape said when he came in, “and come over here.” He was holding the parchment in his hands, so Harry scrambled to dump his bag in the practice corner and hurtled over.

“Is it Dumbledore? What does he say? Are the Weasleys alright? What’s Vo—”

"If you would let me speak, you might find out,” Snape snapped.

Harry rolled his eyes and stepped closer, standing on his toes to see over the taller man’s shoulder. Snape sighed exasperatedly and handed it to him. Harry eagerly sat down at the table, ignoring Snape’s comment about self-control or some other such rot. He quickly scanned the page, looking for any alarming words like “dead” or “captured”. Not seeing any, he started more slowly at the top.

It was a long missive, and mostly detailed legal work Dumbledore was doing to get Harry off of the Ministry’s hit list. The appeal failed laughably, so the Order was doing its best to catch the person who sent the dementor after Harry in the first place and demand a retrial based on new evidence. Some of the aurors, like Tonks and Kingsley, were doing their best from the inside, but Fudge had a close eye on the DMLE and even Arthur Weasley.

Even more alarming, the DADA teacher that year was a ministry plant named Delores Umbridge. Dumbledore was very vague about what she was doing, but it was clear that he wasn't pleased with her presence.

"Do you know this Umbridge?" He asked Snape, handing the parchment back with a brief flash of gratitude that he had come to trust Harry enough to share Order information with him.

The sneer on Snape's face told him enough. "She was at your trial. She is undersecretary to the Minister."

Harry thought for a moment, then felt his lip curl (in a very good imitation of Snape's own sneer, if he only knew it) upon remembering the woman next to Fudge at the trial. "Oh. I think I might know who you mean."

Snape gave him a dry look. "Quite." He carried his parchment to set it on his bedside table, grabbing his apron from where it was slung over the privacy screen on his way back. "I might be late today. Don't wait for me to eat."

"Oh. Where are you going?" He asked, hoping his voice didn't betray any of his disappointment. Snape raised an eyebrow as if it hadn't worked, so he gave a half smile and added, "You'll want to have dinner while it's fresh. It's fish."

"Merlin knows I wouldn't want to miss that," Snape said, voice dry. "I won't be very late. Francis asked for my help on a project, but said it'd be quick."

He had a put-out expression on his face that Harry had a sneaking suspicion wasn't quite genuine. He hid a smile at the thought of Snape being dragged into friendships and not really minding it.

"Alright. I'll keep it hot."

"Many thanks," he said wryly, although Harry knew he probably was grateful. He left a moment later, and Harry decided to study first before hauling out the washtub.

With defense in mind after the missive from Dumbledore, he reached for the defense text Snape had brought. He squinted at the title. It wasn't the one Umbridge assigned that year, as that one was apparently "a useless compendium of the most inane, pedantic drivel that wasn't worth the paper it was printed on" that Snape refused to even touch. Before today, that had been the only thing Snape said about defense lessons that year. He found his bookmark and flipped it to the page. He'd gotten farther through this book than any of the ones for his other main classes, as Snape's self-created defense curriculum was made up of several shorter books specializing in different topics. This one was about detecting and breaking curses, and he'd already learned a lot of extra information from their talks about the work that he thought Hermione might be jealous.

Voldemort was back. How were the other students, the ones without a stern professor looking over their shoulders to make sure they learned enough to not immediately die when faced with an enemy, going to survive? Dozens of people were running through his mind. Friends, housemates, teammates. Kids. If Hogwarts didn't prepare them to survive, who would? Not everyone came from a magical household, and not all of those who did came from families with any sort of proficiency in DADA.

Seamus Finnagan. Luna Lovegood. Colin Creevy. Dean Thomas. The Parvati twins. What about them? Who would teach them how to defend themselves? He pushed the book away, feeling sick. He brought his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, resting his head against his knees and breathing deeply.

Just because they were students, didn't mean they were safe from the violence brewing in the corners of the wizarding world. Cedric Diggory was a prime example.

Harry's breath caught in the back of his throat, and he had to force his fingers to loosen from their white-knuckle grip on his forearms.

He didn't know if he could bear to see another Cedric Diggory. Another student, or ten, or who knows how many, dead before they even had the chance to become part of the world at large.

Snape was teaching him all about defense, but Harry knew it couldn't stop there. He couldn't stop at defending himself.

He and Snape were holding Voldemort below the surface of the black lake, grimly keeping the Dark Wizard from standing up and drawing breath as he trashed, desperate for air.

Would it come to that? Harry, forced to kill one to save everyone else? 

He drew in a rattling breath and forced his knees down, pulling the book toward himself again even as his mind spun in painful circles. This wasn't the first time he'd worried about that very thing, and it was time to focus.

Whatever the outcome of the war was, Harry wasn't going to let anyone else become another Cedric Diggory without putting up one hell of a fight.

His not-quite-a friend hadn't disclosed all of the details, but Severus had a sneaking suspicion that the request for help had something to do with his attempts to woo Diane the baker.

He wasn't disappointed when Francis, on the walk to his house after work, said, "It's about Diane."

"Oh?" Severus said blandly, hoping he wasn't about to get asked for relationship advice.

“Yeah,” Francis sighed. A glazed look passed over his face, and Severus cleared his throat. “She’s been feeling run down lately, and I wanted to do something nice for her.”

Severus wondered what he’d ever done to give the impression that he had good relationship advice. He was almost tempted to ask Francis, just so he knew to never do it again. “I fail to see the relevance.”

Francis grinned at him and opened the door to his house. Severus followed him inside, glancing around curiously as he followed Francis’ lead and removed his boots.

The front door led into a small but cozy sitting room. An archway to the right revealed a kitchen with a small dining table in the center, and a partially open door from there led to a water closet. Directly across from the front door of the place was another door, between couch and bookshelf, that Severus assumed concealed Francis’ bedroom.

“I want to make her dinner,” Francis was saying as he walked into the kitchen, slinging his apron over a dining chair and picking up a pad of paper with pencil that had been waiting on the counter. “She's always cooking and baking for her shop, so a lot of the time she doesn't feel like making herself a meal when she gets home."

“You asked me over for culinary advice?” Severus asked. He was successful at keeping the derision out of his voice, but his tone was exceedingly dry. Francis took it lightly as always. Bad moods and general irritableness never seemed to bother the younger man, something that Severus snidely thought would serve him well in the marriage state.

"Well, yeah," Francis said. "Henry is a good cook, and I figured you would be the same. Boy had to learn somewhere. Was I wrong?"

No, he wasn't (about Severus knowing how to cook, anyways, if not about Harry learning from him), and that annoyed him. "Alright. When is this for?"

"Tomorrow."

"What do you have in your pantry?"

They spent the next twenty minutes scouring Francis' kitchen and discussing Diane's tastes. Despite his best efforts, Severus learned that the woman preferred marinara over alfredo, despised lamb, never ate bananas, enjoyed a small glass of merlot every now and then, knew a thousand different ways to make bread, and often baked homemade cat treats for her old pet, Gerald.

"Francis," Severus finally sighed, resisting the urge to rest this head in his hands, "if she is really as overworked as you say, I have no doubt that whatever moderately edible meal you scrape together will be appreciated."

Francis grimaced but smiled a moment later. "I'll make lemon chicken on rice, then."

Chicken, Severus internally groaned, thinking of the fish waiting for him at home. "Thrilling," he said blandly, standing to make his escape.

Francis showed him to the door. "Thanks for your help. Really."

"You're welcome," Severus said, a disturbing lack of sarcasm in his voice, and he left.

When he finally reached home, he found Harry already finished with his meal. He looked up and smiled at Severus' entrance, pointing to the covered pan on the stove, which was simmering on low. It was stir fry with cod again, something easily warmed up. Severus turned the burner up a few notches and started lazily stirring the contents.

"How'd it go?" Harry asked. His pen was poised above his Art of War notes, but he was looking up at Severus curiously.

"He wanted to talk about food," Severus muttered.

Harry looked at him a minute, then grinned. "Was it about Diane?"

"How did you know that?" Severus asked, surprised.

"You need to keep up more with the village gossip, Professor," he said cheekily, looking down at his notes again when Severus gave him a narrow-eyed stare.

The stir fry began to steam and sizzle, so Severus dumped what was left onto his plate and carried it to the table.

Harry didn't speak as he ate, but Severus could hear the light scratching of his pen against the paper.

As Harry was studying rather intently, the two of them sat in mostly silence that evening. Dark came much quicker these days, and winter was fast approaching. It had been a couple of weeks since they started keeping a fire in the hearth after dinner. Harry was lying on his stomach in front of said fire, reading his defense book, and Severus was in his armchair, when they first heard it.

Severus' heart seemed to skip a beat, and the book fell from Harry's grasp with a dull thud. He waited, hardly daring to breathe, for it to come again.

A log cracked in the fireplace, and Harry jumped badly. They stared at each other.

Harry began, clearly not talking about the log, "Was that—" before being cut off by another long howl.

Severus leapt to his feet, the journal in his lap crashing to the floor. He grabbed his wand, pulling a wide-eyed Harry to his feet.

"Listen to me," he said, laying his free hand on the boy's shoulder and turning him so they were face-to-face. He crouched slightly so they were at eye level. "I need you to go down to the beach. Take shelter amongst the boats on shore. Hide there and do not come after me."

Harry's green eyes shone with both fear and determination. "You can't go out there by yourself!" He grasped Severus' forearm, as if to keep him from leaving.

Severus tightened his grip on his shoulder. "I'm going to use magic to create wards around the village. If you are too close to me when I do so, it will alert the trace and the ministry will come."

Harry's breathing picked up speed slightly, and Severus took an exaggerated breath of his own. Harry copied it, and looked slightly more calm (if not still determined) as he shook his head. "You can't go out there by yourself."

He shook Harry lightly. "Harry, please. Go to the shore. Do you understand me?"

Harry hesitated, and Severus felt the passage of time as the knolling of a church bell for the dead. "Do you understand?"

"Yes," Harry finally bit out.

"Go," Severus said, releasing his shoulder and standing at his full height. He waited for him to disappear out the front door, casting one last look at Severus before disappearing. Severus turned and ran out the back door.

Their cottage was on the very outskirts of the village. Starting in their own backyard, Severus waited only long enough for Harry to have gotten far enough away before casting wards to repel the werewolf somewhere out there on the highlands. He started running along the edge of the buildings, casting as he went. He spared a thought for the villagers he hoped weren't watching him, as a slight silver sheen began pulsing in the air after his wand.

It took far too long, in his opinion, to reach the edge of the village, where he secured the edge of the ward to a stone that he hastily etched a rune onto before turning and strengthening the ward again with extra protections as he ran back the way he had come.

Passing by their home, he continued on to the far end of the buildings. They were less tightly packed on this end, and he noted with some relief that the lights inside seemed to be off. 

He repeated the process of tying it to a stone, internally berating himself for not thinking to set up ward stones along the edge of the village before now in anticipation of any threat. Two stones, one at each end, was the barest of minimums for any type of perimeter ward, especially one designed to fend off a dark creature.

Cursing himself, he returned to their own backyard and cast a quick notice-me-not charm on himself in case anyone looked through their windows.

It was a full half hour before anything happened, in which Severus had begun to hope that the werewolf (or werewolves) would remain content to run around the empty expanse of highlands, without endangering the village at all. His straining eyes, however, eventually caught sight of a dark figure rising up above the crest of a not-so-far-away hill. He adjusted his grip on his wand, watching intently.

Two more figures rose up, one on either side of the first. The middle one, which seemed to be slightly bigger, raised its head and began to howl.

The hair on the back of Severus' neck stood on end—Merlin, he hated werewolves—and he forced memories of the shrieking shack and his sixth year away.

The group on the hill paused before turning their noses toward the village. With a sharp, bark-like sound, the middle one leapt down from the top of the hill and began loping towards the settlement. The other two followed, and then two more who had been concealed behind the hill's outline against the stars joined them.

Five werewolves. Could be worse, there are bigger packs in the UK than that. Still, he fought down some baser instinct to just apparate away and waited for what he desperately hoped would not be a fight.

The leader grew closer and clearly noticed him. Changing course slightly to head right for him, the werewolf ran at full speed towards him. Severus held his ground, wand raised to cast a powerful blasting curse if need be, but the ward held. The werewolf slammed into it and was thrown back, yelping in pain. This ward was one specifically designed against werewolves, a spell he had worked hard to learn in his youth after Black's little "trick". 

The werewolf threw himself against the ward again a few times, clearly growing more frustrated as each attempt failed. The rest of the pack reached him, and the five of them began pacing back and forth in front of the ward, snapping their jaws and snarling at Severus. For his part, he didn't flinch when all five abruptly threw themselves against it again, although the ward seemed to buckle a fraction. It immediately bounced back, however, hurling the creatures away again.

Severus waited to see what they would do next. If they continued running against the ward in a concentrated manner like that, it would eventually break.

He was surprised, therefore, when the five split up and started pacing up and down the ward, growling faintly and occasionally shoving against it.

He grew more anxious as two of them passed completely out of sight, heading towards the more dense end of the village. He kept an eye on the other three, who were also spread out along different points on the ward.

He could still sense the ward in his mind, and he could feel the other two testing it like the three who were closer by were also doing. He cast a stunner at the largest, who he thought might be the leader. It passed through the ward and clipped the werewolf's shoulder as he darted to the side. Snapping furiously, and not at all deterred, it flung itself at the wall again with renewed vigor. Severus frantically sent a sectumsempra at it, which the creature completely dodged, much more wary of any curses after the first one.

Severus paused before casting another spell, sensing the ward weakening at several locations. Clearly it was much too weak to take damage from several different points and still sustain itself. If there were more wardstones tied to it, it may have held up better.

He needed to draw the others away from the ward before they broke through and he was too far away to patch it up. Ignoring the spike of panic that the thought of his hasty plan sent through his chest, Severus leveled a wide-spread blasting curse at the nearest werewolf. When it was forced to retreat backwards several feet, he leapt forward and passed through the protective ward into the open.

Drawn by the appearance of prey within reach, several of the other werewolves abandoned their attempts to break through the ward and ran at him. He tried to get a count on them, but fighting several werewolves at once was a task that required all of his concentration and then some. Multi-casting and throwing some very dark, powerful curses that he hadn't needed to use in years, Severus was barely managing to keep them from ripping him apart.

He felt the gaping hole of a breach opening in the ward just as he was able to finally get a count of the ones attacking him.

Four.

Harry broke into a run as soon as the front door swung shut behind him, knowing that if he slowed down he wouldn't be able to help himself from turning around and going back. He didn't slow down until he reached the very edge of the beach, the sea water black under the night sky as it lapped against the shoreline. A large, bright white splash of light reflected the full moon rising above the hills to the east.

Panting with exertion and emotion, he bent over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath. After a moment, he straightened and looked around the beach. Most of the sea crafts that usually docked at the village were pulled up onto the beach. He looked around uncertainly, wondering what Snape meant by "shelter."

He heard the sound of feet crunching on the rocks nearby and glanced over to see Callum.

"Call!" He hissed, hurrying over. The other boy was strolling, unconcerned, down the beach.

"Oh, hey, Harry."

"What are you doing out here?" He asked anxiously, glancing back towards the highlands.

"I left a shovel near the skiff when we pulled it up onto shore for the year." He noticed Harry's alarm. "It's not that late. It's only, like, ten."

"You need—"

Another howl rent the air, and Callum jumped. "What was that?"

"You didn't hear it earlier?" Harry asked in disbelief, remembering the cold chill of horror that had shot through him when they heard the first howl.

"Da had the radio playing old sixties songs, turned way up."

The front door to one of the houses along the river banged open and a tall, slim figure with dark blond hair stormed out. She (for it was clearly a girl) caught sight of them and stomped over, slamming the door shut behind her. "Callum Duncan!"

"Mary?" Callum asked. "What's wrong?"

"Don't pull that shite with me! You know exactly what's wrong!" She reached them and stopped a few feet away, arms crossed as she scowled at him. She was several inches taller even than Callum, and although she was only a few years older than the two of them, she had a hardened glare that mildly impressed Harry.

"No, I don't," Callum huffed, then pointed his thumb at Harry. "This is Henry. Henry, Mary."

"Hello," she said to him, then turned back to Callum before he could respond. "That's enough, Duncan. You're scaring my little sister."

"I'm not doing anything!" Callum protested, growing heated at the continued accusations.

Another, shorter howl sounded in the distance, seeming a bit closer than before.

The three of them looked at each other.

"That wasn't you," Mary said slowly.

"Of course not!" Callum exclaimed, but the argument was cut off when angry barking sounds echoed eerily through the village.

"You guys need to get back inside," Harry insisted, stepping back and turning to the docks.

They both followed him, asking questions at the same time.

"Do you know what that is?"

"Are you having us on?"

"Why don't you get inside?"

He reached one of the boats and sat on the sand, facing the water, with the boat between him and the werewolf sounds. Snape can handle it. He's an excellent dueller. Still, he shifted nervously, worried about his pseudo-guardian.

The other two sat as well, facing him.

"What are you doing out here, Henry?" Callum asked.

Harry hesitated, then said, "My dad sent me out here when we first heard it." He glanced at Mary. "We live on the very edge of town."

"Wouldn't you be safer inside than hiding amongst the boats?" Mary asked dubiously.

"You'd think," Harry muttered, resting his chin on his knees.

"You could come over to my place for a while," Callum offered.

Harry gave a half-smile. He was about to say something when several long wolf cries preceded the unmistakable sounds of a fight.

They all looked at each other nervously.

"I'm gonna get the shovel, and then we'll go inside," Callum said, standing quickly.

"Forget the shovel!" Mary hissed.

"It's right there," Callum argued, pointing at their skiff a few meters away. He walked over to it, Mary and Harry trailing behind.

"Got it." Callum turned back to them, then froze, eyes wide.

"What is it?" Mary asked, not sounding like she wanted to know the answer.

"Behind you," he said, voice cracking.

Harry turned to see a werewolf stalking down the lane between houses, sniffing around. It drew closer, and Harry stiffened when it seemed to notice them. Its mildly wandering step became more deliberate as it started toward them.

"That doesn't look like a normal wolf," Mary said, taking a step back.

"It's not," Harry said despairingly.

It picked up its pace, jaws snapping aggressively.

"Better run," Callum said.

"We're backed up against the sea," Mary reminded him.

"Take cover!" Harry screamed when it suddenly leapt towards them. They vaulted over the upside-down skiff, and the werewolf slammed into the other side. He hysterically thought that magic could be really useful right now, wishing he could use his wand. Then again, he didn't really know any practical spells that could take down a werewolf.

"We're gonna die," Callum shrieked, voice an octave higher.

"Give me that," Mary said, snatching the shovel from Callum and swinging it as hard as she could at the werewolf's head when it poked above the hull to peer at them. It fell back with a yelp.

"Callum!" Harry hissed, tugging at the other boy's sleeve while Mary readied herself for another attack. They ran, half-crouched to avoid drawing the wolf's notice, towards a nearby boat that had a fishing net half hanging off the side. They both grabbed a handful of it and ran back to the fight, dragging it along.

Harry and Callum shook it out and took up opposite ends of it as Mary ducked a snap from the wolf's jaws.

"Don't let it touch you, and really don't let it bite you!" Harry told them.

"Wasn't planning on it," Mary huffed, jabbing viciously at the werewolf when it started to creep closer.

Harry and Callum moved behind the wolf. It began to turn towards them, but Mary slammed the shovel on its back and it swung back to face her with a snarl.

They threw the net over the werewolf, scrambling back when it started to wildly thrash, its claws slicing the air inches from Harry's leg.

"Get a weapon," Mary said.

"I had one, you—" Callum began, then gave up. "Yeah, okay."

Harry and Callum rushed to search the beached boats for some sort of weapon as the werewolf further tangled itself in the net as it continued to flail about.

"Here's something," Callum said, hefting a trolling motor that had been left leaning against another boat.

"Great," Harry said distractedly, having caught a glint of something metal reflecting the moon on the control panel. "Give me a lift."

Callum gamely cupped his hands for Harry's foot and hoisted him up onto the deck. He grabbed the object, which was some kind of nautical instrument, and jumped back down. "Call, what is this?"

"Ole McDuffy's prized sextant. Why? It wouldn't make a good weapon, it's too small."

Harry looked grimly down at the sextant, hoping it wasn't too prized by McDuffy. "It's made of silver."

Callum's eyes widened. "You don't mean—"

"Come on!" Harry urged, seeing that the werewolf was starting to shred through the net with its claws. They ran forward, weapons at the ready. Mary was panting, wiping sweat from her forehead.

"Where'd you learn to swing like that?" Harry asked her.

"Used to play cricket with my older sister, Iona."

"Iona Docherty, the woman who hates the bagpipes?"

"Henry Paine, the kid who keeps playing the bagpipes anyways?" She asked archly.

The last tatters of the net fell to the sand with a muted thump, and the werewolf looked around at them, chest heaving with exertion and blood lust.

"Careful," Harry whispered unnecessarily.

"Is that really a werewolf?" Callum asked.

"A what??" Mary burst, but the dark creature had turned to Callum at its name, and jumped towards him with unexpected force. He braced his feet in the sand and rammed the trolling motor into its chest, shoving it back. It quickly moved to attack again, but Harry ran towards it from the side, sextant gripped tightly in his right hand. He slashed it across the creature's side and continued running, eager to get out of the reach of those infectious jaws, but his feet slid on the loose sand and he fell into a kind of slide past it.

It hissed in pain as the sextant cut a shallow gash in its side. Angrily, it moved to leap on Harry (whose momentum had spent and was now laying in the sand), but Callum slammed the flat of the trolling motor down on the back of its head with a powerful overhead strike.

"Move!" Mary screamed at Harry.

He scrambled to his feet and, apparently not rational, did something both very brave and very stupid. At the moment, the werewolf was facing away from him, lashing out at the other two, who were trying to keep it occupied so Harry could get out of reach. Still holding the sextant, he jumped onto the werewolf's back. It immediately went feral, twisting and flailing to get him loose.

Harry Potter, however, had once held on to a wildly bucking broom at the age of eleven for the sake of a quidditch match. He wasn't about to be easily unseated when his position was the only thing keeping him safe from those jaws, which couldn't reach him.

Mary and Callum backed up a few steps to get out of range, watching with open mouths.

Harry shoved the sextant between its jaws as it opened them to snarl. With a sort of hissing, choking noise, it dropped to the ground. Harry kept his hold as it fell to its knees, the extra weight helping to force it down.

It was wildly tossing its head back and forth, but the instrument had become lodged in its teeth, holding its mouth ajar. It gave a choked sound of frustration and anger, eventually pawing desperately at the sextant to unlodge it.

Harry slid off its back and it immediately lashed out with a claw, striking Harry a blow across the shoulder. He staggered out of reach, clutching the wound. Red blood began oozing out between his fingers, but he didn't think it was too terrible.

Meanwhile, Callum and Mary had found another net. They threw it over the distracted werewolf as it tried to shake the sextant rendering its contagious bite impotent. Harry hoped it wouldn't kill the wolf, as he knew it was a normal human being at any other time of the month.

"Is that really a werewolf?" Callum asked, stepping close and nudging Harry's fingers aside from the scratch to get a better look. He winced. "I think you'll be okay. You're not, uh, gonna turn into one now, are you?"

Harry shook his head. "Only if saliva gets into the bloodstream."

"You're starkers," Callum breathed, sounding impressed.

"Stay back then," Mary said, pointing at the trapped werewolf. It was beginning to foam at the mouth from its frantic efforts, spittle flying in the air. Harry stepped hastily back as Callum and Marry got a second net to add to the current one.

"This won't hold it indefinitely," Callum said.

"Cinch it at the bottom," she said.

They grabbed the cords at the edge of the cast net and pulled, drawing the net up beneath the werewolf's feet and causing it to topple over.

"Will the silver kill it?"

Harry shook his head. "Nah, that's a myth. Still, they're more susceptible to silver than any other metal. It's often used to close wounds from a werewolf."

They were staring at him.

"You said your da sent you down to the beach," Callum said. "He knows about them too, then?"

Harry nodded uncomfortably, wondering how much he should say. He had a feeling Snape would think "nothing at all," but they had just helped him fight it. They deserved to know something.

"Is he even a teacher? Or are you two really just werewolf hunters in disguise or something?" Mary asked. Oh, so she knew all the gossip too.

"No, he is a teacher," Harry said honestly.

"That's just his day job? Teacher by day, hero at night?" Callum asked.

He doesn't know the half of it. I guess you could say that."

The sounds of fighting in the distance faded away, and Harry hoped it was because Snape had won rather than because he was… incapacitated.

A few minutes later, Harry's worries about a dead Snape and being stuck here by himself were allayed as the man himself ran down the lane towards the beach. He caught sight of them and paused, then ran forward faster.

He looked exhausted, but Harry didn't see any blood, so he relaxed.

Snape eyed the trapped werewolf, which was beginning to tire itself out in its wild thrashing, before his quick gaze scanned the group. He noticed the blood trickling down Harry's shoulder and paled slightly before walking over to him. "Is that…?"

"It's a scratch. From its claws." Harry explained. 

Snape grimaced, but looked relieved. He knelt in the sand beside him and gently drew Harry's hand away, peering at it. "It doesn't look too deep."

Callum said, "Mr. Paine?"

Snape looked at the other two, face inscrutable as he assessed them. "Yes?"

Callum hesitated, as if not quite sure what he wanted to say, before asking, "Did you know they were going to attack? Is that why you came to the village?"

Snape stared at him, then looked at Harry. Addressing Callum, he said, "No. That was coincidence."

"Oh," Callum said, slightly disappointed.

Snape and Harry stared at each other. Harry gave a weak smile, trying to convey that he'd explain later, then asked, "What about the others? What happened?"

"I drove the other four off," Snape said, "but this one got past me." He tilted his head at them. "And you three took it down. Impressive. Even though it was a small one."

Harry lightly punched him in the arm. "Dad." Then he sobered. "What do we do with it?"

Snape watched it breathing heavily, finally limp after working itself to exhaustion. "We'll have to keep it contained until moonset." He stood, helping Harry to his feet and looking to the other two. “You two ought to get back home.”

They looked like they wanted to protest, but Snape had his sternest teacher face on, and while they were admirably unafraid, they did quietly leave after nodding to Harry.

After they were gone, Snape pursed his lips and considered the subdued werewolf. “Better get it off the beach.”

“Where do we take it?” Harry asked.

“Our backyard, for now,” Snape said, sounding tired. He grabbed an edge of the net and began dragging the werewolf away from the shore. Harry tried to help, but his shoulder was beginning to hurt more now that the adrenaline was wearing off and he could only use one arm.

It was a long time before they finally reached their own backyard. Harry noticed a silver shimmer stretching out through the air, shielding the village from the rest of the highlands.

"This one tore a hole in the ward. I repaired it before coming to look for it." Snape's voice was calm, but not quite level. Harry wondered how worried Snape had been about what damage it might have done while he fought off the other four.

"You beat four werewolves by yourself?" Harry asked, suddenly remembering how difficult one (small) one had been with three people fighting it.

"I did not defeat them," Snape said, dragging the werewolf to just past the ward and dropping the net. "I simply made it not worth their trouble to continue."

Harry thought that in itself was fairly impressive, but then Snape pointed at the werewolf. "Keep watch." He disappeared into the cabin, returning ten minutes later with a mortar and pestle in one hand and a bandage wrap in the other. "Remove your shirt."

Harry did so, wincing as his arm lifted above shoulder height and the wound twinged with pain. Snape dipped his fingers into the mixture in the mortar dish, spreading it over the scratches in Harry's shoulder. Harry hissed before clamping his lips shut.

"This is a mixture of silver and dittany," Snape said, probably to distract him from the pain.

"I remember talking about it DADA," Harry nodded. "Where'd you get the stuff?"

"I had dittany in my bag," Snape said, scooping out some more medicine.

"And the silver?"

"One of my silver knives no longer has a tip," Snape said.

"Oh," Harry said, remembering all the disgusting potions ingredients Snape cut up with those.

"Don't worry," Snape smirked, "I washed it thoroughly. It wouldn't do to get trace elements in the salve."

Harry winced at a sharp sting from one of the scratches, and Snape paused before continuing to spread the mixture over the wound. "Sorry."

Snape shook his head minutely. "Do cease apologizing for what is not your fault."

"About the knife, I mean. Now it's ruined."

Snape sighed. "I can sharpen it down again, Harry. This wound won't close without it."

Harry felt a warm glow in his chest at knowing he was Snape's first priority.

The werewolf whined inside the net, and Harry was forced to remember how hard it had been trying to kill them to not feel guilty.

Finished with the salve, Snape set the mortar and pestle down. "Ready?" He asked, holding up the bandage. Harry nodded mutely and Snape started to wrap up his shoulder. "This is going to scar."

"Great, another scar," Harry said sarcastically.

Snape gave him a look, and he subsided.

Harry looked up at the moon. It had risen several hours ago, and now hung high above them in the sky. With a sigh, he slumped to sit in the grass when Snape patted his shoulder to indicate that he had finished wrapping it. That moon, large and white, seemed too pretty to herald such danger.

Snape lowered himself to sit next to him with a wince. He might have won his fight (whatever he protested), but it had still taken a lot out of him.

"I thought we were safe here," Harry said quietly.

Snape let out a long breath. "So did I."

The moon set in the very early hours of the morning, with plenty of time between their captive's shift back to humanity and Harry's bagpipe lesson. Just as the bottom touched the horizon, the werewolf completely passed out. With extreme caution and wearing towels around his hands, Severus pried the sextant out of its mouth so that it didn't rip its jaw out when it transformed back to a human with a smaller mouth.

Looking at the dented, scratched object in his hands, he saw Harry's wince. "Whose was this?"

"McDuffy's," he sighed.

Severus grimaced and took it inside to wash off the saliva and dirt. It was a clean but damaged tool that he handed back to Harry with a 50£ note. "Take this back, and clean up the beach as best you can. Wait half an hour before returning here." He didn't want the werewolf to wake up and see the Harry Potter, boy-who-lived gone missing as a fugitive from the law.

Harry frowned but nodded. With one last glance over his shoulder at the werewolf, he turned and walked off.

Severus sat back on his heels with a sigh. He knew Harry felt sorry for the werewolf, but Severus didn't have the luxury of sympathy. This could very well be a member of one of the ally packs that the Dark Lord had recruited. Then again, it could be someone who as a human never intended to hurt anyone. Until he knew, he wasn't ready to reveal anything. Wearing a jacket with a deep hood pulled up to better shadow his face, Severus waited as the moon continued its descent into the sea.

When the last of its silvery glow faded, and the sky was lit only by a plethora of stars, the werewolf's body began to shudder. The very skin itself seemed to ripple and shrink in on itself. Severus remained stoic through the painful transformation, until a man was left in the wolf's wake, bare and shivering in the nets. He lay, panting, eyes closed and brow furrowed in pain.

"Who are you?" Severus asked.

Eyes flicked open, the color indistinguishable in the dark besides the shining flecks of amber.

"Wha…" came a croaky, hoarse voice, as the man seemed to become more aware of his surroundings. He fingered the net and winced. "What happened?"

"You were subdued," Severus said, "after breaking through my wards and attacking the village." He watched closely for his words' effect.

The man winced and curled up slightly, the fear on his face only partially shadowed by the pre-dawn darkness. "Was anyone… hurt?"

"A boy was scratched," Severus said. "Not bit."

The man gave a shuddering sigh of relief, and some of the tension in his body was released. "We didn't… there wasn't supposed to be anyone in the area."

The empty highlands were a popular place for some werewolves, unwilling to hurt anyone and too poor to afford Wolfsbane, to retreat to on the full moon. "The village is not on a map." Still, Severus had been under the impression that the community had a more thorough knowledge of the geography of human habitation in areas where they normally roamed.

"This was our first full moon," the man said, voice quiet and pained. "We're all people who've been attacked by Greyback recently."

Severus stilled. "Greyback is becoming more active?"

The man laughed without humor. "Evidently."

Severus watched the man shiver in the nets for a long moment. He didn't appear to be a threat, but Severus was hesitant to trust. Still, he hadn't survived this long without good instincts. He reached forward and loosened the cast net, ignoring how the man shied away slightly as his hand came close. He pulled it free from the tangled, scarred limbs as the man began to wriggle loose from the one beneath it.

When both nets were removed, Severus silently handed the man a blanket. He covered himself and stared blankly at the ground.

"Who are you?" Severus repeated.

"Aarav Mishra."

Severus did not recognize the name, but the man was not of an age to have been one of Severus' students. Perhaps they were in school at vaguely the same time, or the man was older. He may not have attended Hogwarts at all. It was difficult to make out much in the gloom besides the posture of defeat and exhaustion.

"The rest of your pack abandoned you when I fought them," Severus said with a slight sneer.

The man turned his face away. "We have a rendezvous, in case of separation."

Severus stood. "I will give you clothes and food, but you must leave now. I warn you, do not return to this place. It is protected."

The man nodded, looking pathetically grateful for someone who was being forced to walk several miles alone before five in the morning.

Severus went inside and returned momentarily with a bundle of clothes, a bottle of water, and a bite of food. Mishra changed with the awkwardness of a man unaccustomed to this situation, further proof to Severus that he had indeed been recently infected. He left soon after, thanking Severus for both the supplies and for preventing him from killing anyone. Severus gave a jerky nod; the man's gentle self-reproach reminded him too much of Lupin.

Severus went inside and collapsed on his bed, feeling sore all over. He'd had no sleep all night, and he was out of practice in magical duelling. The close call with Harry and the other village teens had left him shaken as well.

He heard the door open, and Harry entered. His footsteps paused, and started to turn around.

"Here," Severus called. The footsteps stopped receding and then came closer. Moments later, Harry's face poked around the privacy screen.

"Is he already gone? The werewolf?"

"Gone," Severus confirmed.

"Huh," Harry said. "I thought he'd want to rest up before heading off."

Harry's far too naive. "He felt it was time to go."

Harry blinked, then narrowed his eyes. "You chased him off."

"Yes," Snape easily agreed, conscience unbothered.

Harry huffed. "Was he okay?"

Severus gave a half shrug.

"Professor!" Harry exclaimed, in a slightly scolding tone that Severus would never have allowed two months ago. Now, he merely half-smiled.

"You'd better get some rest."

Harry stomped off, angrily muttering. Severus turned over and pressed his face into his pillow, stifling a groan at the pain in his shoulders from dragging the netted werewolf through the village. He was tempted to take a sick day off work, but he knew gossip would be stirring the village about the sounds last night and he didn't want to vary his routine, lest it look suspicious.

He was deeply asleep by the time McAuliffe's bagpiping woke the town. He clutched both ears and curled up slightly, lips parting in a silent scream of frustration. Even Harry seemed completely knackered as his footsteps shuffled across the room to his practice corner. The sounds of reluctant feet sliding across the floors abruptly ceased as he entered the pre-existing silencing charms, and Severus allowed himself to roll over and drift off again, McAuliffe in the distance determinedly tuned out.

Harry let him sleep through his return and made breakfast, only waking him when he had a plate ready for them both. When Severus commented on it, Harry only shrugged.

"You needed the sleep. You're going to work. I'm going back to bed."

Severus shook his head and began eating. He normally only had a large (or any) breakfast in cases like these, when Harry made it himself. Breakfast was a particular skill of the teen, something Severus darkly wondered if it was one of his regular chores. Still, he ate plenty today, the quantities of magic he'd cast and the physical rigors of the night leaving him hungry.

At work, he did his best to operate on autopilot and steadily ignore the exhaustion still threading through his body. The food had given him some energy, but he wasn't willing to spend any more of it than necessary.

"Odd noises outside last night, eh?" Francis asked.

Severus' head shot up, and he looked closely at the other man, trying to determine if the question was fishing, or worse, stemming from suspicion about either him, Harry, or both. Francis' tone was merely one of mild gossip, however, and his face held the same calm focus it normally did as he worked. "Yes," Severus agreed, still deciding to tread cautiously. "I was not aware there were that many stray dogs in the village."

"There aren't." Francis leaned in closer, becoming more interested in the topic. "Honestly, if you ask me, it was a couple of kids having some fun. Maybe hikers, maybe locals, I don't know. Sounded like wolves. There was a full moon out last night. Probably trying to have a laugh."

"Absolutely juvenile," Severus scoffed scornfully, inwardly singing.

"I'm going to try to make that dinner tonight," Francis said, changing the subject.

Severus had to think for a moment before remembering. Their conversion the day before seemed like a lifetime ago. "I wish you luck." Pretending to mutter under his breath, "You're going to need it."

Francis threw a towel at him.

Harry was still taking a nap when a knock sounded on the front door. Groaning, he rose to his feet and stumbled to the door, still half asleep. He leaned heavily against the frame as he opened it, his hair half covering his face.

"A little tired?" Mary asked.

He blinked and took in the visitors. Mary and Callum were standing side-by-side on the front step.

"C'mon in," he yawned, stepping back and allowing them to enter the cottage. They did, and he shut the door behind them.

Running his hand through his hair to try and tame it, Harry led them to the sitting area. Mary sat primly in an armchair, and Callum flopped onto the couch.

"I can't say I'm surprised you're here," Harry admitted. He grabbed his hoodie from where it was draped over the back of the couch and pulled it on, feeling chilled after getting out of bed. “Tea?”

“Tea? That’s it? Like we’re not going to talk about what happened?” Mary asked.

Harry blinked. “Alright. Yeah, you’re right. We need to talk about it.”

"I haven't told my parents," Callum said.

"Neither have I," Mary added.

I wish my parents were alive to keep secrets from. Aloud, he said, "That's probably a good idea."

"My parents never heard anything. My da had the radio turned up all night. Sometimes he gets insomnia, you know. My mum has a good pair of earplugs when he does, so she didn't hear anything either."

Mary rolled her eyes. "I wish I was so lucky. Lucy—that's my little sister, Henry, by the way—was scared by the sounds, and my mum was comforting her. She thought it was just Callum too. When she asked what took me so long, I had to tell her that I couldn't find you, and that's why the sounds continued for so long."

"What about your dad?" Harry asked.

Mary looked down. "He was killed a few years ago in a boating accident."

"Oh. I'm sorry," Harry said.

She nodded, then changed the subject. "She was going to yell at Callum's da, but I told her that I dragged him home and he already got caught."

"Thanks for that," Callum said fervently. "My da would be really upset if he thought I'd been scaring the village kids."

"Everybody's gossiping about it, but nobody seems to know what really happened," Mary said, eying Harry. "Don't you think you should tell them, in case it happens again?"

Harry shook his head. "It won't happen again." Severus had told him about how he'd informed the werewolf that this village was under protection. Even if there was a pack out there that liked to attack villages on purpose, having a powerful wizard here who'd already proven himself capable of defending the town would be a good deterrent. "I mean, anything's possible, but Dad seriously doubts it." Using the term "Dad," which usually made him oddly happy, felt hollow after the reminder that he didn't really have a father who talked to Harry about werewolves and defense.

He did have Snape, though. But Snape wasn't his dad, no matter what charade they were playing in the village. What was Snape to him?

Mary's voice broke through his musings. "From the way you two were talking, it sounded like there were more.”

“Four,” Harry sighed.

“And he took them out all by himself?” Callum asked, looking thunderstruck. “We barely got one together.”

“He didn’t take them out, he chased them off,” Harry said, although he agreed that it was impressive.

Callum shook his head. “What happened to the one we caught?”

“He transformed back when the moon set and left.”

“You just let him go?” Mary exclaimed.

“Most werewolves aren’t bad people,” Harry said stridently. “The wolf takes over during the full moon, and they can’t control what they do. When they’re human, they’re completely different.”

The other two stared at him for a moment, until Mary sighed. “I suppose you might be right. It’s not like we know anything about them,” she smiled without humor.

From the hopeful way they were both looking at him, he realized that they both wanted him to tell them more about werewolves.

“Look,” he sighed. “I can’t tell you a lot more than that. It’s not my choice, but I just can’t.”

They looked disappointed, but neither pressed the matter.

“But you know what I can tell you?” he asked, starting to grin.

“What?” Callum asked.

“We took down a werewolf with fishing nets, a shovel, a trolling motor, and a sextant. That, I think I can safely say, has never been done before.”

They grinned back.

The man drew the tattered remnants of his cloak closer around himself, glancing around. No one here met one another’s eyes, as if their very presence in this place was a source of shame.

There was also the fear of recognition and peril; as well there might be, the man knew. Something powerful, something dangerous was taking hold of the exiles who united here by necessity. It was an idea.

The man also knew that ideas were hard to kill, especially when they spoke to the fears and resentments of an oft-persecuted minority. It was why he had been sent here, to try and undermine this idea, because this idea would only get them and innocents killed.

“Lupin!” a voice hissed, close to his ear. A few people looked up and then quickly away again, abashed at having broken the unspoken rules.

Remus looked over to see a woman he had become tentative allies with in the past few months, an Irishwoman by the name of Meagher (no one gave first names in a place like this) who was relatively old for a lifelong werewolf. Fifty-three and still fit, she saw too much of Oliver Cromwell in Lord Voldemort. No doubt the Dark Lord would be horrified at the comparison to a muggle, but Meagher could present similarities in their brutality and prejudices quite succinctly.

“What is it?” he asked.

“The five recent bites are back.”

He could tell from her tone that something had gone wrong. “Well? What happened?”

“They found a village,” she said.

Remus felt a shudder threaten to run down his spine, but she didn’t look as grim as she would have if someone had been bitten or killed, so he forced himself to relax. “A new one?”

“No, it was on our maps,” she said, beckoning him to follow her with a hand. She led him to the map room, where enlarged maps of counties across the United Kingdom and Ireland held markings unique to their community. She pointed at a tiny village, marked as barely a dot, on the west coast of Scotland. A fresh marking was inked onto the paper beside it, shining in the candlelight of the underground tunnel.

It was a shield, marking the place as Wizard Protected.

“Teenagers,” Snape scoffed when Harry told him about their conversation. Harry asked him for elaboration, but he merely shook his head and returned to his dinner.

“Anyways, I was thinking about what they said. About it happening again, I mean. If we hadn’t been here, lots of people could have gotten hurt. And you can’t say they wouldn’t have attacked if we weren’t here, because it was pure coincidence.”

Snape paused, then took another bite of rice to stall. Harry crossed his arms, trying to keep the pensive look off of his face.

“Muggles are not completely defenseless,” Snape pointed out finally.

“Do guns work against werewolves?”

“As much as they might against any other very strong animal. The silver bullet theory is a myth, true, but firearms can be very efficient weapons.”

“I don’t know if anyone around here carries a firearm, though. I mean, some of the fishermen have harpoons, and McAullife keeps his old Army rifle mounted on the wall of his store, but there’s not exactly a battalion of trained fighters to take down a pack of werewolves.”

Snape considered Harry. “Three teenagers took one down without magic or guns.”

“Because I knew what it was, and its strengths and weaknesses.”

Snape acknowledged this with a nod. “And now, so do two other residents.”

Harry let out a long breath. “That’s not the point. What can we do to stop it from happening again?”

Snape set down his fork. “I will set up stronger perimeter wards. I may add protections against other creatures as well.” His gaze turned distant. “Perhaps dementors, after this summer…”

Harry waited for Snape to come out of his intellectual reverie.

“But I cannot cast magic with you so close. Sending you to the beach was a stretch.”

“Desperate times, and all that.”

“Yes, yes.” He stared down at his plate, dark brows drawing together in thought. “Unfortunately, the Duncans are finished with going out to sea for the year.” Lacing his fingers together, he leaned forward. “Many of the village occupants are preparing for winter, so to speak. They’re taking final trips to the island to stock up on certain supplies before the seas grow too cold and stormy for the larger cargo-carrying boats to dock with ease.”

“I could stowaway on one for the afternoon,” Harry said, smiling. He was joking, but the thought did make him a little excited as he remembered daydreams originating from the cupboard under the stairs, where he snuck onto a pirate ship to escape the Dursleys and sailed the high seas.

“It need not be an illegal venture,” Snape said dryly.

“Since when did you care so much about the law?” Harry asked, pushing his chair back slightly as he regarded his professor. “We’re on the run from the law, if you’ve forgotten.”

“Hardly,” Snape retorted. “And as such, there’s no cause to draw any sort of official attention towards yourself.” He shook his head. “I worry about you sometimes.”

“Aw, it’s good to know you care,” Harry said, laying a hand over his heart in mock gratefulness.

Snape looked like he was considering the merits of tossing the dregs of his tea into Harry’s face. He settled for an eye roll. “As I was saying, perhaps I can loan out your services to someone.”

It was Harry’s turn to roll his eyes. “‘Here’s a reasonably able-bodied teenager to lug crates for you. Yes, I know, teenager. Still, he is intelligent enough to not drop it on your foot. His own, however…’ Yeah, I can imagine your offer.”

Snape smiled falsely. “I’m sure there’s some desperate soul out there, willing to risk their cargo by entrusting it to your dubious care.”

It turned out, Diane Harrison was just such a person. Francis had complained to Snape at work the very next day about how he hadn’t been able to get time off to help retrieve the boxes of furniture and decor Diane had ordered to remodel her bakery, and Harry could imagine how quick he’d been to offer to send Harry along to help out instead.

He reported, as instructed, to Diane’s bakery (Diane's Delectables) after eating breakfast. Snape had actually eaten with him, to Harry's surprise. The bakery was a narrow two-story in the middle of the southern half of the village. An outside-access staircase led up to the first story. The siding was painted an off-white, and the roofing tiles were a sort of mossy green. He stepped onto the front porch and knocked, ignoring the hammer and handful of nails balancing precariously on the handrail next to him.

“Oh! Hello!” The door swung open, and a rather breathless woman trying to smooth back her hair smiled at him. “You must be Henry.”

Harry nodded and followed her inside. There were paint rollers and tarps on the floor, and the interior walls were painted a sort of light orange-y color. It looked like the entire ground floor was made up of the shop itself. Harry guessed that she probably lived in the rooms upstairs.

“Everything’s finished, you know, but there’s a bit left to clean up. The boat doesn’t leave for another half hour.”

Harry started rolling up a tarp near him.

“You didn’t have to do that. Thank you,” she said, picking up one of the paint rollers and the tray it was resting on. “You can bring that back here.”

She led him through an open archway in the far wall to a kitchen area. She dumped the tray and roller in a pile by the back door, on top of her other recent cleaning efforts, and Harry followed suit.

They cleaned up the front room until it was completely empty, save the stool behind the counter, which she plopped down on.

“Thanks for helping me out today,” she said.

“No problem,” Harry replied honestly. “I didn’t mind a break from schoolwork anyways.”

She grinned back at him, then checked her watch. “Ay, we better get going.”

The boat ride to the island took about forty minutes. As they drew closer to the docks, Harry leaned against the rail, eagerly taking in the sights.

They docked, and Harry followed Diane’s lead as she walked down the docks and into the city. They went to a small garage, where Diane rented a truck for the day.

“I’ve already ordered everything over the phone from a catalog,” she said as they started down the road. “They should have it all ready to pick up. There’s three different shops, and I’ll need your help to load up the truck.”

“Got it,” Harry said, nodding.

They spent a couple of hours going from store to store. Diane would park, tell him to wait, and go inside. She’d come back ten minutes later and drive the truck around to the back, where Harry would help load up whatever boxes they needed. By the time they’d finished, Harry’s stomach was aching with hunger.

“Let’s stop and get something to eat,” Diane suggested.

Harry, not about to argue, was glad when she parked near a small cafe near the waterfront. They had soup and sandwiches, while Diane asked him about his life before he came to the village.

“My dad teaches chemistry to high schoolers. He was one of my teachers, actually. I had two close friends, Ron and Hermione. I really miss them.”

“Why don’t you go back?” she asked hesitantly.

Harry looked down, not quite sure what to say. “Back to what? Dad resigned after… and anyways, we already gave up the lease on the apartment. There’s nothing for us there.” He swirled his spoon in the soup, not liking how despondent his voice sounded at that last bit. It was absolutely true, although not in the way he was letting Diane believe.

As if sensing the truth in that, she didn’t ask any more.

“What about the village?” Harry asked to fill the suddenly awkward silence. “What made you set up a bakery there?”

“I lived there, when I was little. We moved to Glasgow when I was about fourteen, and I missed the peace of the village. My parents were constantly pressuring me to get my degree, but I didn’t want to go to university. Didn’t feel my life heading in that direction. So, as soon as I’d saved up enough, I came back here to open my shop. I like working here, although I wish certain ingredients weren’t such a hassle to get.”

Harry bobbed his head like he understood. Diane paid for their meal, and they left. Back at the boat, Harry unloaded the truck and started hauling boxes on board while Diane returned the truck to the garage.

By the time they reached the village again, it was early afternoon. He helped her unpack the boxes and arrange the items within to her satisfaction. There were several small café tables with chairs, and a couple of bookshelves that they assembled and placed behind the counter. She had a collection of antique teacups that she placed on the shelves, and Harry thought the place looked very nice. Diane appeared to think so too, as her lips curled into a satisfied smile when she looked around. “Thanks for all your help, Henry.” She handed him 20 quid. “The old supplies are out back, if you want to take anything home.”

Mildly interested, Harry wandered out the back door in the kitchen. Several mismatched, slightly battered tables and chairs of various styles cluttered the back garden. Nothing much interested him, although he did select a squat stool to serve as a nightstand next to his bed. Waving goodbye to Diane, he walked home.

Severus, after careful consideration, had realized that the only time he would be able to cast the wards around the village was during his lunch break. He’d eaten a good breakfast to make up for the upcoming missed meal, then gone to work after seeing Harry off to Diane Harrison’s bakery. Francis told Severus how grateful Diane was for “Henry’s” assistance, which Severus didn’t really care about.

“I’m sure Henry doesn’t mind the chance to get to the island. He hasn’t seen it yet, after all.”

“That’s true enough, I suppose.”

When the anticipated lunch break finally came, Severus made his excuses and hurried out. By this time, Harry ought to have been long gone. Still, he pulled his wand out with slight trepidation before casting strong muggle repelling and notice-me-not charms on himself.

Half an hour. He had half an hour to spread the rune stones he’d already prepared around the perimeter of the village, then cast various wards. After some deliberation, he had chosen repelling wards against werewolves, dementors, and inferi, as well as one to detect ill-intent and another to obscure tracking in case their pendants failed. He had considered adding charms to make the village unplottable, but he knew the werewolf underground would have marked the village as wizard protected (he had demanded it, after all) and didn’t want it to suspiciously disappear. Anti-apparition, too, he had decided against. As much as he disliked the idea of allowing an enemy to apparate into the village, he disliked the idea of being unable to apparate himself or Harry away in an emergency even more.

When he was finished, he saw that he still had a little bit of time before he had to be back at work. He ran to their cottage, where he placed several additional extra-strength wards on the property. With that finished, and feeling slightly weary from the excessive use of magic, he returned at a slower place to the fish shop after canceling the charms on himself.

“You rushed out of here,” Francis commented when he took up his station.

“Forgot to turn off the coffee maker,” Severus said blandly.

"Checkmate."

Harry groaned. "You'd think playing with Ron would get me used to losing."

Snape smirked. "To know how to win, you must learn how to lose—"

"You just made that up!" Harry accused.

"—again, and again, and again…"

A knock at the door interrupted Snape's crowing, and Harry leapt to his feet. He mouthed, “Slytherin!” at his professor, who snorted, as he went to the door, wondering who it could be on a Friday night. “Oh, hey Callum!”

“Hey, Henry. We’re having a small party tomorrow at my house for my birthday. I was wondering if you want to come.”

“Yeah! Sounds great.” He looked over his shoulder at Snape for confirmation, who nodded. “Thanks!” Harry said, turning back to Callum and wondering what kind of gift he should bring.

“Ace. It starts at one,” Callum said. “See you later.”

“Bye,” Harry said, closing the door as Callum gave a small wave and walked off. He returned to his chair. “Another game?”

“Perhaps later,” Snape said, leaning back in his chair as he lifted his mug of tea from the side table and drew it close.

“You’re sure?” Harry asked.

"Of course. You need a break, to salvage your pride."

Harry made a face at him as he plucked a scone off the plate on the coffee table and settled back into his chair. "Alright, then. What do you want to do?"

Snape seemed to grow more serious. He looked down into his cup, a very faint frown line forming between his eyebrows. It gave the impression of the man aging slightly right before his eyes, the weight of years of responsibility and hardship falling over him like a cloak. "This situation is temporary. Even if we are not discovered, remaining in the village is not a long term solution."

He looked as pained to say it as Harry was to hear it. “So you want to… what? Leave?”

Snape ran a hand through his hair. “I have no plans to do so. However, the search for us continues. To stay on the move may make it more difficult for anyone to track us down.”

“But if no one knows we’re here, and if we leave, someone might see us and recognize us,” Harry argued.

Snape nodded solemnly. “That is true. And yet, if we are found here, and a fight commences, the villagers may be caught in the crossfire. If the Dark Lord were to find us, he would just as soon torch the entire place as draw breath. As for the Ministry, at best, they would interrogate several muggles for information about us.”

Harry blanched. “Okay. Okay, so where are we going?”

Snape held up a hand, amusement flitting across his face, but fleetingly. “As I said, I have no current plans. I merely mean to make you aware of some of my concerns."

“But you said they could get hurt!”

“A lot of people could get hurt,” Snape said. “This is war.”

Harry did not like that answer, so he didn’t respond to it. He stood, taking his cup over the sink.

“The way things are currently, no one stands to lose more than you do,” Snape continued relentlessly. “So, if we may remain here with relative safety for at least some time more, we will do so.”

Harry huffed. “Where else would we go, anyways?” The village was small, and isolated. The technology was dated, and the climate was cold, and he was stuck here with Snape. Besides Hogwarts, there wasn’t a single other place he would rather be.

“I have contingency plans,” Snape said vaguely. “All of which are dependent upon other variables. What concerns me most, however, is whether you will be allowed to return to school at all if the situation does not improve in a timely manner.”

The cup slipped out of Harry’s hands, bouncing crookedly off of the edge of the counter and smashing onto the ground. Shards of pottery skittered across the floor, a sharp crack snapping through the air and making him wince.

“Blast,” he muttered, crouching down and beginning to gingerly pick up the biggest pieces. Youngest seeker in a century, and you can’t even keep hold of a cup.

Snape stood and walked over. “Careful, you are barefoot.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry said, angry at himself. Snape slowly crossed his arms, unimpressed with his attitude, and Harry sighed as he straightened. “Sorry.”

Snape frowned at him for another minute, then relaxed his posture. “I will get a broom.”

Harry gently cupped his other hand over the broken shards in the other and took an exaggeratedly large step over the rest. The edge of his foot made contact with a shard that had blended in with the floor, poking it. He paused and lifted his foot, but it hadn’t broken skin. Shaking his head, he picked up the piece he had stepped on and dumped it into the bin with the rest.

Snape returned with a broom, handing Harry the dustpan. Five minutes later, they were back in the sitting room, feeling decidedly more ruffled than before.

“They would… what? Expel me for being falsely accused by the Ministry?”

“The Headmaster would do his utmost to ensure that does not happen.” The unspoken, that Dumbledore had done his utmost at Harry’s trial and failed there, hovered in the air between them. Harry thought that he might be able to reach out and physically grab it if he really wanted to. “The decision is not merely his own, however.”

“The Board of Governors.”

Snape nodded.

Harry leaned back against the couch and stared out the window blankly, watching the sun set behind the hills to the west as it set the sky aflame with reds and oranges. “And if they expel me?”

Snape drummed his fingers on his knee. “You will need to remain in the castle. There’s nowhere else in the United Kingdom where you would be so protected. Perhaps you can be given some sort of employment.” He grinned. “I am sure Filch would appreciate some assistance.”

Harry wrinkled his nose at the extremely unfunny joke, then straightened. “Maybe I could help Hagrid? He was expelled, and Dumbledore hired him as gamekeeper. I could be hisassistant!”

“Hopefully, you will be no one’s assistant,” Snape said forcibly. “The goal is to ensure your continued education.”

The sun was now halfway past the horizon, and the sky was beginning to take on a slightly purple hue. “No potions class, though,” Harry said. He kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, determined not to look at Snape’s expression, as he knew he would burst out laughing if he actually saw it. As it was, he could imagine it well enough, and it was all he could manage to keep the contemplative expression on his face.

“That is true,” Snape finally replied, sounding thoughtful. “I had not considered that. Perhaps we ought to aim for your expulsion. I would never have to teach you potions again.”

Harry tossed a pillow at him.

“Thanks, Henry! It’s great.”

Harry rocked on his heels, pleased that Callum liked the sextant he’d gotten him.

“I wonder, what made you think of that?” Mary asked, blinking innocently.

Harry and Callum both shot her a look, at which she smirked. Deigning not to respond verbally, however, she only handed her gift to Callum.

He ripped the paper off and grinned at the box containing a football net.

“It’s a cheap one,” she said, as if not wanting him to get the wrong idea and think that she actually liked him.

“Still, it’s great,” Callum said, setting the sextant on the box and pushing it aside. “Thanks.”

“Don’t look too much into it,” she warned, although the corners of her mouth tugged up in a smile.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to remember that you dislike me every time we use it.”

“Oh, I don’t dislike you,” she said easily as they made their way to the kitchen counter to try some of the cheesecake that had been made for the gathering. “I just think you’re annoying. A little vain, perhaps. Oh, and you aren’t the brightest—”

He objected, “Hey, it’s my birthday! You have to be nice!”

“Your birthday was two days ago,” she pointed out.

“You weren’t nice to me then, either,” Callum said.

Harry grinned as Callum dropped a slice onto a paper plate and slid it over to him. It was moments like this that he missed the most from his life before the village.

It seemed as though his life was divided up into two parts in his mind: before and after the village. Before the village, he was someone who stuck out. Either he was the too-skinny, badly dressed kid that the neighborhood bullies liked to target, or the Boy-Who-Lived, famous for what he could not remember beyond a flash of green and the sounds of his mother’s screams. Here, he was relatively unknown. Innocuous. Interesting in that he was a newcomer, and had a slightly tragic “backstory”, but beyond that? He was just another teenager.

“Well? How is it?”

Harry, lost in his thoughts, had yet to take a bite. He shoved a forkful into his mouth, then slumped as the blueberry and cream cheese hit his tongue. “I’s ‘ea’y goo’,” he said.

“I guess so,” Mary laughed. She accepted the plate Callum handed her and took a bite. "Oh, it is good."

The Duncan brothers came in from another room, in the middle of a conversation about the oncoming winter season.

"Hey, Da," Callum said.

"Call! How's the party coming along?"

"Great." He glanced quickly over at Harry and Mary, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Did they ever find out what left that blood on the beach?"

Harry felt the slight whoosh of air that accompanied Mary's kick, aimed at Callum's shin. She missed as he casually stepped forward to lean his forearms on the counter. He gave her a look, signaling that he knew what she’d tried to do. Before any more silent (or not-so-silent) communication could pass between the three of them, Malcolm Duncan shook his head.

“No one knows. My bet is on a couple of stray dogs getting into a fight.”

“Way out here?” Jack Duncan said, in a belligerent tone that indicated an ongoing argument.

“What do you think it was, Jack? Polar bears?”

They passed out of the room, now cheerfully bickering.

“I’ve been hearing stuff like that all week,” Callum sighed.

“At least you’re alive to hear it,” Mary said, not sounding at all sympathetic.

After they finished eating their cheesecake, the three of them sat around the coffee table in the sitting room and played board games. Harry briefly thought back to hours of playing exploding snap in the Gryffindor common room, then focused on trying to keep his red trouble peg out of range of Mary’s ruthless green one.

Callum’s mum poked her head around the corner. “It’s half five,” she reminded them.

“Oh!” Harry said, glancing at his watch. “I better get going.”

“See you later,” Callum said. “Thanks for the gift.”

“Later,” Harry agreed. “Happy birthday.”

He stepped out of the front door and blinked. The outside world seemed to be unfocused. He plucked his glasses off of his face to check if they were smudged. A quick swipe with the hem of his shirt, however, made no difference.

It took another few seconds of standing in the street, squinting around, for him to realize that there was some kind of haze in the air. Not with the mist that clung to the ground as early morning fog, but more similar to smoke.

People were beginning to shout and run down the main road, and it took Harry a moment to realize they were heading in the direction of the cottage.

It was smoke.

A sudden, dizzying fear gripped his heart, and he began sprinting home.

The smoke grew thicker as he leapt over the stream, stumbling slightly on the opposite bank but unwilling to take the detour to the bridge. Brushing the dirt off of his knees, he veered southeast in the direction of the pillar of dark smoke beginning to climb into the sky, smudging the bright blue a with thick grey.

"Oh, it's Henry!" someone called. He didn't bother to stop and see who it was; the relief in the unknown voice had set the warning bells in his head to full blast.

He rounded the corner, momentarily taken aback at the wave of hot air that hit him in the face as he stared at the burning cottage. When Harry screamed and tried to run inside, strong arms wrapped around his chest and held him back. He strained against his bonds, which suddenly released when Snape came stumbling out of the front door, coughing violently and streaked with soot.

"DAD!" Harry yelled, darting forwards to catch him as he stumbled. Snape’s long-fingered hand gripped his shoulder as the man fought to stay upright, and Harry noticed with alarm that it was trembling.

In Snape’s other hand, a rolled up parchment was crinkled from where he tightly clutched it. As a woman wearing scrubs hurried over, Harry discreetly tugged it out of his hand and slipped it into his own pocket.

“Are you burned?” the woman asked, scanning Snape’s face.

Trying to choke back his cough, Snape shook his head. Harry helped the woman lead him away from the cottage, which was still exuding smoke, although he refused to sit on the ground as she checked him over clinically. Harry realized that it must be the village ANP.

“Henry!”

Harry glanced over his shoulder at Callum, who was running up with Jack Duncan. “Oh, thank God you’re alright!”

“It was already…” he choked on his words, “...when I arrived.”

“Come on, boys!” a voice called from several meters away. It was Francis, waving an arm at several men who had brought buckets full of water and started throwing them on the fire. This was, unsurprisingly, not very effective; Francis, dragging a large hose along behind him, quickly gained several helpers.

Harry, torn between helping and staying with Snape, had his decision made for him when Amy grabbed them both by the arm and pulled them away from the scene. Snape was breathing less erratically now, and although the ANP had suggested an oxygen mask, he had waved it off. Still, Harry walked close by his side, resisting the urge to take his arm, knowing Snape would refuse any more help than he’d already been forced to accept.

Amy Duncan led them to her house, where Harry sat numbly at the kitchen table while Snape took a shower to get the soot off. When he returned, wearing borrowed clothes of Malcolm’s that hung loose on his lean frame, Harry looked him over anxiously to make sure he was alright. Snape ignored his scrutiny, pouring a cup of tea from the pot on the table in front of Harry and sitting down across from him in another chair.

“Are you okay?” Harry finally asked, unable to contain his question any more.

“I am fine,” he said shortly. “Where is Mrs. Duncan?”

“She ran out to see if she could help. I would have followed her, but she told me to stay here.” Not that Harry had put up much of a fight. He’d been too worried about Snape to leave him behind. He could still feel the panic coiled in his gut, could sense the band of fear around his heart that made each beat a painful endeavor. For a moment there, when he was restricted in front of their home and Snape was nowhere in sight, he had really thought—

“Do you have the parchment?”

Harry nodded, patting his hoodie pocket. “Yeah. I don’t think anyone saw it in the smoke.”

Snape nodded, taking a long sip of the ginger and thyme tea. “Good.”

“What happened?” Harry asked, a mental image of Death Eaters razing the burrow making itself unwelcome.

“I do not know.”

“Was it an attack?”

“I am not certain, of course, but I do not believe so.”

Harry relaxed back into his chair slightly, although the worry lines didn’t leave his face. “And you’re really alright?”

“I am really alright,” Snape sighed. He then smirked slightly. “Ten points to Gryffindor.”

“Sir?”

“For keeping your head and sticking to our cover story in the face of an emergency. Well done.” Snape lifted his cup in a small toast before taking a sip.

It took a moment to realize that Snape was referencing his shout of “Dad!” when Snape first escaped the cottage. Harry smiled weakly and looked down into his tea.

He hadn’t been thinking of the cover story at all.

Harry didn't like the fire safety officer from the island. He placed back and forth in the charred remains of what had become home to Harry, hmming and sighing and not saying anything useful as Harry's dread got worse. What he was waiting—and fearing—to hear, that there was a possibility of arson (and thus some sort of attack), seemed imminent.

"It was an electrical fire," the man finally declared.

The officer was a pretty great guy. Harry perked up immediately. Snape slowly uncrossed his arms, and although most people wouldn't have been able to read the minute changes in his face, Harry could tell that he was just as relieved.

"The wiring in this place hadn't been updated in decades," he continued, "likely not since it was built. When was that?"

"1949," Malcolm said. As owners of the cottage, he and Amy were also there to hear the officer's report.

The officer sneered slightly. "Backwater villages like this never seem to have any regard for fire safety."

Harry scowled. He hated the officer.

Amy didn't need any help from Harry, however, to defend herself and the village. She said pointedly, "If that’s true, it's the fault of negligent officials who are supposed to make sure their entire jurisdiction is up to code."

The man cleared his throat, and Snape had a viciously pleased look on his face from hearing her setdown. To prevent a full incident from his caustic professor, Harry tapped his arm and moved to search the ashes for anything salvageable as the officer stepped over the charred threshold to go toe-to-toe with Amy.

Harry walked carefully through the ashes, casting around for anything metal and more likely to withstand the flames. With this in mind, he headed for where he knew the kitchen to be. "You ran back inside for Dumbledore's parchment, didn't you," he asked quietly.

Snape nodded once, also beginning to search for something they could recover.

Harry spotted what he thought might be their kettle. He reached his hand down into the ashes, only to draw it up and cradle it to his chest with a hiss as he sliced his palm on something sharp.

Snape was there a moment later. "Let me see it."

Harry fought the instinct to shy away and held out his hand. Snape inspected it carefully. "It does not look deep. You will need to wash it out, however." He released Harry's hand. "It is times like these that I sorely regret being unable to cast magic," he muttered quietly.

"Sorry," Harry said, even though he wasn't quite sure what, exactly, he was apologizing for.

Snape gave him a look, and he shrugged and glanced away, heart stinging more than his hand as he refocused on the ruins around them. Keeping his right hand close, he walked over to what had once been his practice corner.

Using his foot to brush aside the ashes (and any sharp debris), he unveiled the case holding his practice chanter. It had cracked under the heat, and another tiny tear opened in his chest as he reached cautiously in with his left hand, pulling out his ruined practice chanter.

"There's nothing more I can do here," the officer said abruptly, evidently growing tired of their spat. Snape immediately ceased searching and walked back to the small group. Harry wandered over at a slower place, chanter still held loosely at his side.

"Is it irreparable?" Amy asked sympathetically, one of the few villagers who completely supported his efforts to learn from McAuliffe.

Harry held up the blackened and warped chanter, staring at it numbly.

"That is a shame. Elegant instrument, the bagpipes," the officer nodded to Harry, then took his leave.

The officer was alright, really.

"I still say we wait for Dumbledore," Molly argued.

Sirius slumped down in his chair, sighing dramatically. "We don't need his express permission for every little thing," he griped.

"We can argue this around and around for hours. The unavoidable point, that we don't know when he'll be back, and can't afford to lose any more potential allies, isn't going to change," Remus said. Sirius had rarely seen him so assertive at Order meetings, and certainly not since after Azkaban.

"If he's an ally," Moody said. "So far, all you've told us is that he fought off some werewolves that had attacked him."

"Or her," Tonks shot from the corner.

"The man who captured him said it was a male of apparently capable physical and magical years, who had been fair to him. The fact that he didn't just kill him or call the ministry, I hope, indicates someone more interested in doing the right thing than blindly following the law."

"Whoever he is, he should have called the ministry," Moody said. "He's a wild card."

Sirius snorted. When everyone looked at him, he shrugged. "Oh, don't mind me. I'm just the Azkaban escapee in your midst, enjoying the irony. Let's listen to what else our resident werewolf has to suggest. Unless, of course, our Death Eater spy should finally come back from whatever hole he’s crawled into with another idea. We're none of us the world's first picks for heroes. We're in the Order because Dumbledore asked us to be, and he did that because he trusts us and wants our help. Do you think he'd have asked a single person in this room to be here if he didn't think they could handle themselves? I say Remus goes on his bloody mission."

Everyone started talking at once. Finally, Minerva yelled for quiet, and everyone stilled. She turned to Remus.

"Do you feel ready to find this person and talk to them?"

He nodded.

"Then I say we take a vote."

Everyone agreed to that. Minerva called for those for, and Sirius was one of the first to raise his hand, along with many others. He couldn't tell if it was a majority, however, until she asked for those against, and there were enough fewer people that it was obvious which side had won.

Remus was going on a mission.

"Fine," Moody growled. "But if you're going, you’ll need to be prepared. Let's draw up a plan."

Sirius internally groaned. "Drawing up a plan" was Moodese for spending hours discussing increasingly unlikely scenarios.

Evidently, Remus didn't share in Sirius' feelings, as he pulled a map from his pocket and spread it out flat across the table.

"Where's this?"

"The west coast of Scotland. The easiest access point is by boat from this island, here." He pointed at a point on the map, and Sirius pulled himself to his feet, not liking the way his joints creaked with the movement. He moved closer to stand next to his old friend, following his finger as it pointed at a small dot of a village on the map. "That is where our new ally may be found."

Harry might have grown some these past few months, but he was still a bit small for his age. Callum brought over a box of clothes that he had grown out of, but which fit Harry perfectly. Embarrassed at having to wear his friend’s own clothes, he had still thanked him sincerely.

Snape was also the benefactor of the villagers’ generosity. Francis, in particular, had loaned him various clothes for the time being.

There hadn’t been much to salvage from the ruins of the cottage. They had been able to prevent the fire from spreading to nearby homes, but had not managed to save much of anything of the cottage itself. What they had pulled out of the ruins—their kettle, some silverware, and a couple of mugs—weren’t even their own belongings. They were furnishings of the cottage, and had been there when they arrived. Even as much as the place had become home to Harry, and he had felt a sort of ownership over everything within, the only items that had truly been his were the bed, some books, the chanter, and the clothes Snape had bought him. All of these were gone.

With his hand cleaned and bandaged, Harry sat on the couch next to Snape in Amy and Malcolm Duncan’s living room. “Hey, Dad.”

As owners of the cottage, the Duncans held themselves responsible for the fire and had offered to share their own home free of charge until Harry and Snape could find new lodgings. Snape slept in the guestroom, while Harry used a cot that had been squeezed into the office. While they weren’t sure who might be nearby, they had decided to use their fake names on a semi-permanent basis.

“Hello, Henry,” Snape said flatly. He was staring at the opposite wall, an uncharacteristic, slight slump to his shoulders.

Harry knew exactly how he felt. They had come here with almost nothing, but had managed to build a life for themselves. Now, they really had nothing at all except for each other. Not even the clothes on their backs were their own. He was lucky that Snape had instructed him to keep his wand on him at all times, or that would have been lost as well.

“What are we going to do?” he whispered.

Snape closed his eyes. “For now? Get our bearings.”

Harry slid his feet out of their shoes and tucked them up under himself, wrapping his arms around his chest and twisting to lean sideways against the back of the couch. He faced away from Snape to shield his tortured expression from view.

Why did it have to end? Things had been good.

“At least we have a real bathroom to use now. No more brushing our teeth at the kitchen sink,” he tried to joke. The attempt didn’t work.

“Indeed.” Snape said disinterestedly.

Harry hunched a little further in on himself as everything became just a little bit heavier inside. “Every time I gain something worth having, it gets taken away, and it’s just like before, except now I know what I’m missing,” he said.

There was silence, and then a hand touched his shoulder. Harry clenched his jaw, not moving, afraid that if he did the burning in his eyes would win.

But Snape had decided to give one of his rare offers of comfort, and wasn’t about to let Harry refuse it from shattered pride. He gently pulled on Harry’s shoulder, turning him around to face him. Harry didn’t resist, but the burning in his eyes did get worse, so he pressed his face into Snape’s side to hide it. While he sat there and pretended he hadn’t lost the battle with his emotion, Snape spoke.

“Not everything has been taken away.”

Harry could feel the vibrations of his professor’s speech rumble in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter. “Oh, really?” he asked, with a choked laugh that sounded more like a sob. “What’s that, then?”

“The skills and knowledge that you’ve gained remain with you. Every book you read, every meditation session you completed, has helped you and will continue to do so.” It was a vague response, in keeping with their caution of being overheard, but Harry knew what he meant.

“I guess,” he said. “That doesn’t make the rest hurt any less.”

“No, it does not,” Snape sighed, and Harry hated the defeated tone he heard.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Stop apologizing,” Snape said, wrapping his arm tighter around Harry.

As they sat there in silence, Harry realized that there was one other thing he had gained since they came here, which had not been taken away by the fire. He hesitantly wrapped an arm around Snape’s torso. The man stiffened slightly, but didn’t pull away, so Harry allowed himself to close his eyes and pretend, for once, that their cover story wasn’t really a story after all.

That was the scene Amy walked into a few minutes later. She didn’t comment on the embrace, nor the way Harry hastily scrubbed at his face when he sat up. “Dinner will be in a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” Snape said, standing up.

“Of course. We’re having lamb and rice.”

At that, Harry felt a smile on his face despite everything. She gave him a sad smile in return and left. Harry turned to Snape.

“Did you hear that?”

“Dinner?” Snape asked.

“Lamb. Not fish, lamb.

Snape’s lips twitched. “Perhaps, things are starting to look up?”

Harry rolled his eyes, but a bit of the heaviness in his chest had lightened.

The drizzle began as the ferry was leaving port. Remus, coming from London and only wearing a light jacket, pulled it tighter around himself and hunkered down in the meager shelter provided by the pilothouse wall. He was tempted to use his wand to cast an impervious charm, but there were several muggles on board and it was a small boat. Resigning himself to a miserable trip, he was relieved when the half hour trip was over and they’d arrived at the village. The boat hadn’t properly docked, just lined up to one of the docks as Remus jumped off; none of the crew had looked happy when their captain said they had a passenger to take to “the village.” From everything Remus could find, the place didn’t even have a name. The boat sped quickly away after, leaving Remus hoping that there would be a boat on this side of the village leaving today, as he doubted the small settlement had a hotel.

The drizzle had increased to a steady downfall with a cold, biting wind that drove the rain sideways, making his hood useless. He trudged down the dock and along the beach, looking for whoever might be manager of the docks. There was a lot of action on the beach, seeming to be directed by a man holding a clipboard and shouting into the storm. He had a small umbrella, but seemed more concerned with keeping the papers he held dry than himself. The back of his hair was completely soaked, clinging to the back of his neck as he hunched over the clipboard. Remus approached slowly, trying in vain to pull the hood farther down on his face.

“Excuse me,” Remus hesitantly. The distracted man looked over at him.

“I’m sorry. Do you need something?”

“Well, yes. This may—”

“David, what about these spare nets?” a woman shouted from halfway across the beach, drawing the man's attention.

“Keep two of them in the boathouse, and throw the rest in the warehouse,” he shouted back, then turned to Remus. “My apologies. You were saying?”

“Yes, I’m looking for—”

The man caught sight of something over Remus' shoulder and held up a hand to halt him, sprinting off in the direction of three identical men, shouting something at them in an angry accent too thick for Remus to make out from a distance amidst the patter of rain hitting the sand.

He stood there awkwardly, waiting for the man to return and fearing that he wouldn’t. Eventually, however, he walked back, looking more irritated than he had before. "I don't mean to keep putting you off, but it is a busy time. Winter is almost here, and everyone is preparing for the season. I have no time anymore, but that's what I get for being manager of the docks," he said. “You're looking for…?” he prompted when Remus didn’t immediately speak.

“I’m looking for an old friend of mine,” he fibbed. “Is there anyone here who might be new to the village? I heard he might have come here.”

The man narrowed his eyes at him, as if judging his intent, then said, “Perhaps you mean the kid with the bagpipes, and his dad?”

“That’s the one. The father, I mean.” Remus said, hoping that it was the one, but slightly disheartened to hear that the man had a son. Familial attachments tended to make people more cautious about joining life-threatening organizations. “Where can I find him?”

“Well, they’re staying at Malcolm’s house since their cottage burned down.”

“And where is— sorry, did you say burned down?”

The man nodded, then waved to someone behind Remus. “Leave it for later! Go help Peter! Yeah, electrical fire.”

Remus was increasingly beginning to feel as if this might not have been a good time after all. Deciding not to be put off, he said, “Where is that?”

“Follow the stream until you get to the bridge. Cross over to the other side, and go south until a side path branches off to the left. Go that way. Malcolm’s house is a two-story with blue siding. If you get lost along the way, you can ask anybody. They’ll be able to help you.”

“Thank you, Mister…?”

“Docherty. David Docherty. And you are?”

“Thank you, Mister Docherty. I’m Remus Lupin.”

After shaking Docherty’s hand and walking away, Remus wondered whether he shouldn’t have used a false name, but supposed it didn’t really matter.

He followed the directions easily enough, ending up at a house similar to the description he'd been given, pausing in the road outside. There were lights on inside, but Remus hadn’t been expecting to speak in someone else’s home besides wherever the mysterious potential ally might live. The odds were, this was a muggle’s home, and it would be very difficult to get anything out of the following conversation if he could not be completely blunt.

The rain was cold, however, and Remus wanted to be inside. Unwilling to leave without at least attempting something, and desperately wanting out of the weather, he stepped resolutely onto the front porch and knocked on the door.

A minute later, it opened, a very familiar face staring at him.

"Lupin?"

"Severus!" Lupin exclaimed.

A scowl was beginning to form on his old classmate’s face. “What are you doing here?” he hissed.

Remus hesitated, then glanced at the storm behind him. “May I come in?”

Severus’s nostrils flared as he considered, before stepping back with poor grace and nodding towards the inside of the house with a jerky twitch of the head. Remus gratefully stepped inside, kicking off his wet shoes in the hallway and following Severus to a small but comfortable parlor.

Was he the “mysterious potential ally” that Remus had been so hopeful to find? Severus had disappeared from all Order contact after the trial. They had feared the worst. As relieved as Remus was to find him here, apparently unharmed, he also had a million questions. There were so many things he wanted to ask, and they must have short circuited his brain, because the first one that popped out was, “You have a son?”

Severus’ face took on a deliberately blank look. Having expected something along the lines of “you’re a blithering idiot, of course not”, or perhaps a more succinct “no,” Remus was only left more confused.

A boy skipped into the room. “Dad, who is—” he stopped abruptly when he saw Remus standing there, open-mouthed.

“Ha-” Remus began, his voice barely a croak, before having to stop. It had to be Harry standing there, but he looked… different. Healthier. Happier, maybe. Finally, he asked, “Harry?”

Harry nodded, offering him a small smile that was tinged with a kind of sadness.

The three of them stood there, staring at each other for a long, tense moment. Remus was looking between Severus and Harry, wondering what was going on. Harry was looking to Severus for answers, while Severus himself was glaring at Remus.

“Maybe we should sit down?” Harry finally suggested when it became apparent that neither adult was going to make the first move.

“Perhaps we should,” Severus ground out, not taking his eyes off of Remus.

“Excellent,” Remus said, following Harry’s lead and sitting on the couch while keeping one eye on Severus. Something is going on here.

It’s a good thing that Malcolm and Amy are out. Harry glanced at Snape again. His glaring had finally subsided into a stoic, closed-off look that Harry hadn’t seen in a while. It scared him more than anything else about Remus’ arrival; in any other situation, he would have been glad to see his old DADA teacher. Whatever scene followed, it definitely wasn’t something the village should be witnessing.

“What are you doing here?” Snape hissed. “The homeowners are out; you may speak freely and, I hope, quickly.”

“I wasn’t expecting to find you,” Remus said. “After you fought off those werewolves, word got around that this village was protected. I proposed to the Order that we find this person and approach them about joining the fight against Voldemort.”

“You told the Order? Brilliant, Lupin. That is the worst possible thing you could have done.”

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked.

“In case you have somehow forgotten, we took refuge here after your trial because the Order may be compromised!” Snape snapped.

Harry lowered his chin slightly. A few months ago, he would have resentfully withdrawn at that tone from Snape. Those days, however, were long gone. “Yes, I remember,” he said levelly. “But the Order doesn’t know it’s us that’s come here.”

Remus looked at him curiously. He was probably surprised to see the change in his and Snape’s rapport. Harry kept his eyes on Snape, however, watching the gears turning in his head.

“It does not matter,” Snape finally said. “This location is no longer secure. We will have to leave.”

Remus spoke up. “Have you two been hiding here since the trial, then?”

“Yeah,” Harry said when Snape didn’t respond. “Like, since right after. It’s been months.”

“Completely out of contact?” Remus asked.

“I do not believe that is a concern of yours,” Snape said.

Harry sighed and slumped in his chair, resting his chin on his hand as the two started bickering.

“I’m merely trying to gauge the situation. You’ve been posing as father and son?”

“Yes,” Snape said, a challenging note to his voice. Remus chose not to follow that topic further.

“I heard about a fire. Was that really an electrical fire, or did something else happen?”

“My, you do keep up on the local gossip,” Snape sneered. “It was electrical.”

“That’s good,” Remus said. “Well, not really, but better than an attack of some sort. How did you keep the Ministry from following Harry’s trace?”

“We lived as muggles, Lupin. Harry used no magic, and I only did when he was far enough away that it would not matter.” His sneer turned to a sardonic smile. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

“Far enough away? You let him out of your sight?”

“He’s right here, you know,” Harry said, finally getting irritated. “Professor Lupin, how much do you know about what happened?”

“Remus, Harry. All that Dumbledore told us was that you’d been taken to an undisclosed safe location, where you would remain in hiding until the situation improved. Sirius, in particular, demanded to know why you weren’t kept at Headquarters. Dumbledore told us that it was, in essence, none of our business, and went on to order us all not to attempt to search for you.” He turned to Snape. “You said the Order was compromised?”

Snape looked sour at having said more than he meant to. In tones of deepest reluctance, he said, “The Headmaster believes there may be a spy amongst your midst. He instructed me to take the boy and hide. Until now,” with a glare, “no one knew where we are, including Dumbledore himself.”

“A spy? Why does he think that?”

Snape said, “Whether or not I knew, I certainly would not tell you.”

“Remus isn’t the spy!” Harry exclaimed.

“No,” Snape drawled. “Lupin doesn’t have the wit or courage to be a spy. His hapless exposure of our location to the Order, however, is reason enough not to trust him with any more important information.

Remus grimaced, but Harry wasn’t content to leave it at that. “That’s not fair. He didn’t know it was us. He just thought he was recruiting some random ally.”

“I see you are defending your favorite professor,” Snape said snidely. “Even that plan was foolhardy. I could have just as easily been a Death Eater using this village as an experiment base on the hapless muggles nearby. Remus could have been captured, killed, or compromised in a worst case scenario; far more likely, his mission would have been an abject failure.”

Harry stared at Snape in wonderment. It was like going back in time, seeing this version of him. This Snape wouldn’t have surprised him before the trial. But now? This Snape was nothing like his Snape. Defending my favorite professor? What was that all about?

“I’m not defending anyone,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t think you were being fair.” I had come to expect better of you. Was I wrong?

He and Snape stared at each other for a long moment, until Snape turned back to Lupin. “What of myself?”

“We didn’t know what had become of you. Your disappearance was reported in the paper. You’d been seen publicly a few times in the week after Harry went into hiding, so no one connected the two of you. Many feared you had been discovered as a spy and killed. A few thought you might have chosen the other side and completely left the light.”

“I suppose you were one of them?”

“No, I was not. No matter what you may think of me, Severus, I never assumed the worst of you.”

There was a tense moment of silence. Harry tried to figure out a question to ask in order to get the conversation moving again, but the only one he could think of was the one he least wanted to hear the answer to. Finally forced to speak by the overly loud stillness, he asked, “So what happens now?”

Both men stopped assessing one another and looked at him. Snape spoke first. “We leave.”

That was what he’d been afraid to hear, but the answer didn’t sting any less. “And go where?”

Snape side-eyed Remus. “Perhaps now is not the time to discuss that.”

Remus was not offended at this. Snape tilted his head slightly and narrowed his eyes a bit, his posture of deep conjecture. He sat like that for a moment before slowly sitting back in his chair and lacing his fingers together, staring blankly at a spot on the floor.

Harry knew to let his professor be when he got to thinking like that, so he turned to Remus, who seemed bemused at this shift in Snape’s behavior. “So, how’s the weather out there?”

“Nasty. I do hope there will be a boat home tonight, or I may have some very uncomfortable sleeping arrangements.”

If he was expecting an offer of refuge from Snape, he wasn’t going to get one. He did not look hopefully over, however, so Harry felt himself spared from the need to apologize. It wasn’t really their house anyways. “There will be. The ferry boat makes its last trip at six.” The clock on the wall read 2:41, and Remus relaxed slightly.

“Excellent.” He then smiled at Harry. His next sentence, while delivered with a cheerful tone, had an undercurrent of steel. “And you are well? Happy?” A half glance at Snape revealed his true meaning.

“Yes,” Harry said, trying to infuse all of the peace and contentment he’d found at the village and with Snape into his voice. “I am.”

That honest answer seemed to be enough for Remus, whose smile turned to a more genuine delight, along with a tinge of relief. “Good.”

Whether or not Snape noticed the byplay (although Harry guessed he had, as even when in deep thought, the man was constantly aware of his surroundings), he did not react.

“What about Hogwarts? What’s happening there?”

Remus’ smile fell. “It is not… ideal.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

Remus sighed. “The Ministry has placed a High Inquisitor at the school to monitor Dumbledore and the teachers.”

“Umbridge,” Harry recalled with distaste, before realizing that would reveal that he and Snape had an outside source of information. He glanced guiltily over, but Snape ignored him. He resisted the urge to sigh with relief. “And Ron and Hermione, and the others? They’re okay?”

“They’re as well as can be expected,” Remus said, which was not particularly reassuring.”

“I believe,” Snape spoke up slowly, “that I have an idea.”

Harry and Remus instantly turned to him with expectant looks. He raised his eyes from the floor to meet Harry’s gaze. “But you will need to trust me.”

The plan was finalized and Remus left long before Amy and Malcolm came home. They had, of course, heard about the stranger who wanted to speak with them. Snape gave them a vague response, acting troubled and distant according to the first part of their plan. Then again, Snape was a good actor, but Harry thought he could detect a note of genuine perturbation in his voice that echoed the pang in Harry’s own heart.

Things were about to change. Something had ended.

“We’ll be sorry to see you go, of course,” Amy said, chopping carrots with practiced ease. “But I’m also glad.”

“You must be looking forward to having your house to yourselves again,” Severus acknowledged, lifting another potato to peel. He had volunteered to help with dinner, as it was their last night in the village before leaving.

“That’s not it,” she shook her head. “You’ve been running.”

Severus dropped his knife. “I beg your pardon?” He asked, immediately calculating in his mind how long it would take the Ministry to find them if he Obliviated her.

“From your past,” she said, setting down her work and turning to him. “When you came here, you said you’d bought a small boat and had taken it out by yourselves. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, the schoolteacher from Essex and his son? You were running from what happened.”

Oh. She was referencing the death of his late beloved wife. “Perhaps,” he said blandly, going back to his potatoes. They had decided to tell the people from the village that Severus’ old friend had come looking for them after their abrupt departure from Essex, as they had left without “tying up some loose ends.”

“No ‘perhaps’ about it. You didn’t need to stay here, but you did. If your old colleague hadn’t come to find you, would you have ever gone back?”

“Likely not,” Severus replied grumpily, dumping the now-peeled potatoes in a pot of water.

There was a pause as they worked together in silence. Eventually, she spoke in a softer tone. “When my daughter and her husband died, I couldn’t imagine ever going back out on the sea. I could barely stand to go to the beach. It was a year before Malcolm could convince me to leave the village. We went to the island, and I clutched his shoulder the whole ferry ride there.” She took the herring filets—herring. Their last night in the village, and it had to be herring?—to the sink to drain. “I’d never before been scared of the ocean. Why would I be? I grew up alongside it. The accident changed that.

“I think, when something bad happens in our lives, things that used to be easy, that we never had to think twice about before doing, become impossibly hard. Sometimes that can be something as basic as going home.” She gave him a look. “Running will never make it easier. You need to go back there, if only to face what happened. That way, if you ever return—which I hope you will, Samuel—it’ll be because you want to be here, not because you don’t want to be somewhere else.”

Severus stared at her, committing her words to memory. “That is very wise,” he said, thinking that she could give Dumbledore a run for his money. She definitely got to the point more quickly.

“Trust me,” she said, pointing her finger at him. “You’ll be glad to have missed a winter up here.”

Severus, who had survived several Scottish winters from the comfort of a magical castle and still found them miserable, heartily agreed.

“I can’t believe you’re just leaving like that,” Callum said again.

“Yeah, me neither,” Harry said morosely. “We’re not sure where we’ll be living, but my mum’s sister offered to take us in after she died. Dad doesn’t really like her, but you can write us at that address. If we're not staying there, she can still forward it to us." The idea of Aunt Petunia kindly offering to take anyone in was laughable, but he did have an aunt on that side (who had taken him in, albeit reluctantly), and Snape insisted that the best lies were the ones closest to the truth.

"Really? Ace."

Harry scribbled the address Snape had given him, something about a place called Spinner's End, down on two pieces of scrap paper and handed one to each of them.

"Thanks," Mary said, slipping it into a pocket.

The three of them were standing on the shore, watching the sun set.

"That's where we fought the werewolf," Callum said, nodding his head at a spot farther down the beach.

"Are you ever coming back?” Mary asked.

Harry thought about everything waiting for him back in his old life. His friends, his enemies. Schoolwork. The war. The Dursleys. The only way he’d ever have a chance to come back here was if he came back on his own after he turned seventeen, an age that seemed harder and harder to survive to as things kept getting worse. “Yeah,” he said instead, hoping it would be true.

“Good,” she said, knowing that he wasn’t sure but pretending as well.

“Maybe you can come back next summer,” Callum suggested.

“Maybe,” Harry lied lamely.

“We’ll see each other then,” Callum also lied.

So the three of them stood there, lying to themselves and each other as the sun sank past the horizon.

Harry went to his last bagpipe lesson that morning with a heavy heart. He’d been tossing and turning all night, but hadn’t been willing to cancel his very last lesson.

McAuliffe stopped playing when Harry came into sight, waiting patiently as he approached. His shoes crunching in the frost, Harry walked up to him.

“I heard you’re leaving,” McAuliffe said.

“Yeah,” Harry said.

McAuliffe didn’t say any more, only handing over the bagpipes. Harry settled the drones on his shoulder and started the warm-ups. At first, his heart wasn’t into it, but the bagpipes aren’t the kind of instrument you can play half-heartedly, and his mood improved throughout the lesson. By the end, he was even smiling.

“You did well,” McAuliffe said gruffly, patting his shoulder. “You’re definitely getting better.”

“You really think?”

McAuliffe nodded.

As the lesson was over, Harry started to take off the bagpipes and hand them back, but McAuliffe stopped him. “You’d better keep them.”

Harry looked at him with wide eyes. “What?”

“They’re yours, now. Keep them.”

Harry was nearly speechless with gratitude. He hugged the bagpipes to his chest. “Thank you.”

“Iona Docherty might puncture them if I keep playing at 5:30 in the morning.” He smiled at Harry, though his eyes were sad. “Probably best for everyone. You continue practicing, you hear me? I don’t care what anyone says about it. You practice every day, and when you do, remember me and old Bill Millin.”

“I will,” Harry vowed solemnly.

When he arrived home, Snape did a double take when he saw Harry with the bagpipes.

“He gave them to me,” Harry said in awe.

“Dear Merlin,” Snape groaned.

“I can’t say I’ll be sorry to see them go,” Amy said, entering the parlor with Malcolm.

“You’re off soon, then?” Malcolm asked.

“The first ferry leaves at seven,” Severus said. “We will head down now. We have a long day ahead of us.”

“Goodbye,” Amy said, giving Harry a hug. Snape shook hands with the both of them, and they left to start heading down to the beach. They carried no bags; they owned nothing. Even the clothes they wore were the ones they had on when the fire happened. Harry was glad that he’d had on the red hoodie Snape bought him. Out of all of the clothes he’d gotten at the village, that was the gift he had loved most.

“It’s a shame about those textbooks,” Harry said as they walked down the street, thinking of all the homework he’d completed, now burned to ash. He really hoped he wouldn’t have to redo most of it.

Snape narrowed his eyes at him. “Harry? Is that you?”

“Ha, ha,” Harry said. “It’s just, we’re leaving with even less than we came with.”

Snape put his hand on Harry’s shoulder.

They reached the beach. They had already arranged for the tickets the day before, so they boarded the ferry directly. It was still dark out, and the ocean reflected the last of the stars.

Snape tapped Harry’s arm to get his attention. He looked over and saw a light on the beach. It was an electric lantern, held by Callum. He waved at them.

Another lantern bobbed over from farther down the beach. It was Francis, with his arm around Diana.

As the crew prepared to set off, more people gathered to see them off. Allan, Snape’s boss, and his sister, the ANP. Jack Duncan and his wife joined Callum. Mary and her little sister. McAuliffe. Iona. Even Malcolm and Amy, although they’d said their goodbyes at the house. Harry waved at them all, leaning partially over the rail as if physically needing to be back with them. Snape raised his hand, not waving, but in a farewell gesture.

The ferry set off, until the illuminated faces were too far to make out. As the village grew smaller, the only thing they could see of it in the dark was the small gathering of lights in the distance.

“I can’t believe it’s just over,” Harry said hollowly.

Snape didn’t respond. There was no comfort to give.

The ferry docked after what seemed like an eternity. Harry and Snape got off, said goodbye to the captain and crew, and entered the city.

They didn’t have much money left, but there was enough to get to where they were going by muggle transportation. Still, despite never resting between stops, it was evening by the time they finally reached London.

A black cab took them to a street a couple blocks away from Grimmauld place. Harry and Snape walked the rest of the way.

On the front step of Headquarters, Snape knocked on the door. A screeching could be heard from inside. It was Sirius’ mum’s portrait.

It abruptly ceased, and the door flew open.

Sirius stood there, staring at them with absolute shock. “Harry?”

“Are you going to let us in, Black, or will I be forced to commit the not so unthinkable act of hexing you out of the way?” Snape asked.

Sirius instantly turned on him, but Harry hurriedly said, “Sirius! It’s good to see you!”

Sirius blinked at him, still struggling to keep up. He asked, “Are those bagpipes?” in the tone of someone who had not meant to say it.

“Yup,” Harry said. “Can we come in?”

“Of course,” Sirius said, although he glared at Snape when they stepped through.

“Who is it?” a voice called from the kitchen.

“See for yourself,” Sirius said, a grin beginning to spread across his face as the surprise wore off. He showed Harry into the kitchen, the cut in front of Snape as he followed. With a snarl on his face, Snape followed Sirius into the kitchen.

Harry stood awkwardly as at least a dozen eyes turned to him. They had arrived during an Order meeting.

“Harry!” A dozen voices cried.

“Is it really Potter?” Moody asked suspiciously. “Boy, what’s your patronus?”

“Of course it is Potter,” Snape said scathingly.

All eyes turned to him. Some were surprised but relieved, others clearly suspicious. Harry was thrown off at hearing his last name from Snape after becoming used to being “Harry”.

“Where have you been, Professor?” Charlie asked, a hint of wariness in his tone.

“I was protecting the Boy-Who-Lived, Weasley. Where do you all suppose I have been?” he asked the room at large, his voice barely controlled. It was clear from the way he asked it that he knew exactly where they thought he’d been: at Voldemort’s side.

Once, Harry would have thought that Snape was just being nasty. Now, he could tell that the man was defensive.

“We feared you were dead, Severus,” Molly Weasley said softly. Snape turned to her, and his tense posture didn’t loosen, but his voice was a bit more calm when he spoke.

“No. Dumbledore gave me the duty of seeing that Potter remained out of Ministry custody.”

“Why did you come back now?” Kingsley asked.

“It was time,” Snape said cryptically.

“It might be a good thing you’re here now,” Tonks said. “Something’s come up.”

Snape drew out a chair and sat down.

“Wait a minute!” Sirius exclaimed. “You’re not just going to let him back in like that, are you? The filthy spy was probably sent here by Voldemort himself.”

“No, he wasn’t!” Harry exclaimed. “He wasn’t lying. He helped me escape after the trial, and we’ve been in hiding for months.” This speech had the desired effect of deflating the argument brewing between the two old enemies, but also caused all of the attention in the room to turn back to him.

“Where were you two, Harry?”

“Don’t answer that!” Moody said. “Better keep it a secret.”

Harry was glad not to have to answer. Remus was supposed to have said that the attempt to befriend the wizard in Scotland had failed, without mentioning that it was them who had been there. Some might make the connection between Remus’ visit and their return, but they had decided to say as little as possible about the full situation. Harry looked at Remus, who gave him a smile. “It’s good to see you again, Harry.”

“You too, Remus,” Harry said.

“If we’re having a meeting, Harry has to leave,” Mrs. Weasley said. “I’m sorry, dear.”

Harry felt an old, familiar anger rising up inside of him; he caught Snape’s eye, and the man shook his head slightly. Harry bit his lip to keep the retort inside, simply nodding and turning to leave. He missed the significant looks that passed between several of the adults at the mini-exchange and walked out.

He went upstairs to the room he’d been sharing with Ron in August, setting down his bagpipes with relief and rubbing his shoulder. He looked around the room, catching sight of his trunk and immediately hurrying over. He opened the lid, looking at the contents with a sense of joy. Yes, there were things he hated about his life, but there was also so much good as well. He pulled out the broom servicing kit Hermione had given him for his thirteenth birthday and sat on the bed, smiling.

He spent the next half hour going through every single item in his trunk, each one bringing to mind a thousand memories.

He found some things that needed to be thrown away, as well; empty chocolate frog cards, an old Gryffindor tie that was hopelessly stained with gravy from a food fight with Ron, broken quills. He began throwing items back in afterwards, grinning when he thought of how Snape would react if he saw the haphazard organization.

There was a knock at the door. It was Sirius.

“Hey, pup,” he said, coming in when Harry grinned at him. “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay. Really,” he said at Sirius’ doubtful look.

“Staying with old Snivellus for months… I can’t imagine it.”

“He’s not that bad,” Harry said, sitting on the edge of the bed and looking down at his hands.

Sirius sat next to him. “You can tell me, you know. I’d curse him for you,” he said.

“I know you would,” Harry said, half-smiling. “But you don’t need to.”

Sirius looked physically incapable of believing that Snape wasn’t in every way reprehensible, but settled on, “If you say so. I came up to say that Molly’s made a big dinner for everybody to follow the meeting.”

Harry jumped eagerly up. “Mrs. Weasley made dinner?” In this world, there were three things he loved more than anything else: his friends, quidditch, and Mrs. Weasley’s cooking. “What are we waiting for?”

He sprinted out the door. Sirius laughed and followed closely behind.

They burst into the kitchen, panting and grinning. Snape looked over at him curiously.

“Dinner,” he said by way of explanation.

Snape rolled his eyes with exaggeration. Harry took a seat at the table across from him, with Sirius on one side and Tonks on the other.

Mrs. Weasley used her wand to float over several different dishes. Harry’s first instinct was panic, as it had been drilled into him about how magic could not be cast near him without alerting the trace, until he remembered that the Fidelius charm would block any Ministry devices or spells.

As a plate of steaming baguettes was set on the table nearby, his mouth actually began to water. He waited eagerly for her to bring over the massive pot on the stove. After setting down several other side dishes, she did.

He fought to keep from bouncing in his seat like a four year old. What kind of stew was it? Chicken? Beef?

The pot was placed on the table, and he leaned forward with great anticipation before looking up and meeting Snape’s gaze in horror.

It was fish.