“Hasn’t anyone told you not to talk to strangers?” Uncle Vernon asked in a vicious snarl, his pudgy face wobbling darkly, his second chin seemingly taking on a life of its own.

Harry turned to face his Uncle, stretching his back from having been perched over the bushes for so long. He corked his eyebrows, biting back a sarcastic comment and settling on a mere shrug. He had only been giving directions to a passing old man, looking for his sister’s house; he really didn’t consider that talking to strangers.

“Well, don’t,” he hissed. It wasn’t that Uncle Vernon was concerned for the safety of his nephew; he cared more or less for the safety of his reputation, and didn’t want anything ‘freaky’ happening and being witnessed. It was bad enough that they had to let the boy out of the house. “We’re leaving now...so get inside.” His voice was lowering darkly; face turning a regular color, beside the heat of the day beating in on him. It wasn’t even ten o’clock and the obese man was already sweating profusely.

“All right,” Harry mumbled, rubbing the back of his hand on his forehead. Uncle Vernon stepped aside, allowing his scrawny nephew to slip back, cuffing him sharply on the shoulder as he slunk passed.

“Don’t cause any problems,” Uncle Vernon shouted once Harry was safely inside. “We’ll be back after dinner...don’t do anything freakish or there’ll be consequences, no matter those raving lunatics or yours.” Harry didn’t respond to the order, he was lucky to be allowed out of his room while they were out, and just stomped up to the bathroom where he took a warm shower, soothing his muscles over.

He had been pruning the garden almost everyday this week, the Dursleys determined to win the Best Yard Contest that cam about every six years. Harry was lucky not to be ill with heat stroke from all his days outside, but he didn’t complain. Not even in his constant three-day letters he wrote to the Order.

He knew they knew he was working, he was always being watched, but at least this year he knew about it. He sent off his letter yesterday, saying he was fine and eating enough—that seemed to be a big issue this summer. He had a feeling Ron and Hermione might’ve let it slip, but he found he couldn’t be angry about that.

Once back in his room, the house a thick, engulfing quietness of an eerie emptiness, Harry flopped down on his bed, chewing his lip. He was caught in a moment of indecision, if he should do it or not.

Outside, he knew that his usual watcher at ten o’clock would leave in ten minutes, leaving a five minute open period, and then the next one was to clock in. If he was planning on doing it, then it would have to be then.

He sat up, his clothing, better fitting due to the fact that he was wearing Dudley’s ten-year-old hand-me-downs as shorts and a sagging shirt, and looked around. On his desk, under Hedwig’s empty cage, was a letter from Hermione, a tiny, neat scrawl that played out in the lines of Robert Frost’s poem, ‘The Road Not Taken.’ The one Professor Snape had mentioned in his dream.

After that night, when he woke up after walking down the path, he found himself tossing to and fro, trying to figure out the reason to his choice and if choosing one path or the other mattered. He hadn’t had the forest dream again, and he wasn’t sure if he was glad for that or not.

Sighing, he reclined his head on the wall and thought back to his conversation with Hermione over the phone.

“Harry James Potter what are you up to?” Hermione’s accusing voice asked over the phone, suspicious of his request.

“Nothing, ‘Mione,” Harry replied, truthfully. He was leaning against the wall, fully aware that Aunt Petunia was glowering in the kitchen and thinking of her precious wall being smeared.

“If you say so,” she sounded doubtful. “What’s going on Harry...falling in love with poetry?” For a moment she sounded like Ron, mocking and jesting. Harry had to bit his tongue to comment on that.

“No,” Harry retorted, burning in the face. “Just need to see something...” he trailed off with a dismissive shrug that he knew Hermione couldn’t see, but it helped doing do.

“‘The Road Not Taken’, by Robert Frost, I can do that. He’s an American Poet, so it’ll be easier to limit the searching.” That was the Hermione Harry knew. Study, study, study and research, research, research.

“I better go, ‘Mione, thanks.” Harry hung up after that and hurriedly retreated before Aunt Petunia could shovel him more chores to do.

Hermione had been quite prompt with her response, as usual, her scrawl playing out the lines and then another question to why he wanted it, then nothing else. He hadn’t responded, instead he did something completely stupid, and wrote to Professor Snape.

Hedwig wasn’t back yet with his reply, but he had sent it yesterday with the Order letter. Now he was regretting it, deeply. He hadn’t written much, short and blunt, the way he preferred it and the way he figured Snape would prefer it too. If the man even bothered to read it...

Dear Professor Snape-

Why Robert Frost?

-Harry Potter

“Stupid,” Harry swore aloud when he thought back over the letter. Snape wouldn’t even know what he was talking about! It had been a dream, his own dream. Professor Snape hadn’t really been there. He was so stupid.

But after he read the poem, he had been on such a charge that he reacted without thinking. He was going to have to learn not to do that.

Distantly he heard the pop marking the departure of the watcher and without a thought Harry jumped up, grabbed a few things and threw off his watch, which he had finally replaced last year.

He ran quickly, out of the house and down the street, before the other watcher could arrive and catch him. He had the feeling that the next watcher was Fletcher anyway, and had a feeling that the man wouldn’t notice for a while anyway.

He finally arrived at a safe distance from Privet Drive and settled on a stroll that would lead him into the town. He figured he’d be safe from Voldemort and his Followers, but he was secured anyway. Pausing in the shadows of a large tree, he leaned over and strapped his wand to the inside of his ankle, while placing a fake on in his pocket.

He tied around his waste, a belt, black and leather, so that his floppy shirt of Dudley’s fit nicely. He didn’t look odd with belt strapped around his shirt on the outside, and after carefully examining his reflection; he found that it somehow looked natural on him.

Not that he hadn’t done it before, he and Ron (while he had been on the Quidditch team) used to do it, as did the Twins. It helped with keeping baggy shirts out of the way, and for Ron a bit of settling balance on the broom.

Somehow the look must’ve adapted to him. He sighed when he took off the belt, realized he looked worse without it and tied it back on. His clothing was sad when he couldn’t even look decent without having a belt strapped about his waist.

Sighing in relief in a sudden feeling of freedom, Harry trooped on, his jet-black hair flopping into his face, obscuring his scar and eyes. Almost an hour later, he was in town, slipping through alleys and avoiding anything that might look magical. He was going completely muggle for the day.

He managed to slip into a crowd of children around his age and not one of them gave him an odd look. Feeling oddly free without his guilt of Sirius weighing him down, he buried his hands into his pockets, kicking idly out while the other children chatted merrily around him.

Without his watch on his wrist, Harry felt oddly lost without knowing the time. He didn’t know when he was supposed to be back home, or what time it was, only his stomach, already offset from the lacking portions of food, could tell him the time and that wasn’t reliable either.

He didn’t dare ask anyone for the time. That was the whole point of his departure from Privet Drive. To escape time and everything that revolved around it. All summer he had been living by time, looking frequently to his watch to make sure he had this done by then and starting on this and that.

A familiar routine that was now nagging at him. His urge to look at his wrist didn’t die, especially when he felt oddly disoriented several hours later after his escape and his stomach for the first time complaining from hunger.

He had long since broken off from the group of children, but was sticking to large masses of people. Anything to keep him unnoticed and he was very good at that.

Strolling in front of a large store that flashed the digital time, Harry jerked his head to the left and look elsewhere. The feeling of not knowing time was near impossible to describe. He felt that he was Don Quixote, mounted on his stead, facing off the windmills that were ferocious dragons, while his side-kicked sputtered of being confused and lost.

He wasn’t confused or lost, but at the same time he was confused and lost in his own madness of chasing dragons and not knowing the time.

His stomach rumbled loudly, and absently he rubbed it, looking at a sandwich place he was placing with a slight longing. That was the one thing he hadn’t bothered to bring, not that he had any to bring, was money. Money muggle and wizard money too. At least he brought two wands, a fake one and a real one. He’d be safe, that was for sure.

Running his hand through his hair, he took a shortcut through an alley, making to go to the next street and get even more lost in his obscure sense of time.

Then, suddenly, a black figure swooped out of nowhere, knocking hard into him and stealing his fake wand from his pocket. Harry toppled forward, his arms flailing in an attempt to break his fall, and skilled from his various push and shoves from Dudley, the boy skillfully caught himself over and flipped over.

In a skilled movement he caught himself; Harry flipped his wand from the strap at his waist and trained his wand quickly on the man holding another wand on him.

“So, you’re not as stupid as you look,” Snape’s snide voice cut through the shadows that covered his face. He lowered his wand, as did Harry, who pulled himself up slowly. Snape flicked the fake wand and it burst into a blue rose. “Clever.” Harry tried hard not to gap at the compliment. “Must I ask you what you’re doing?”

“I needed to get lost from time,” Harry shrugged ignoring Snape’s wondering eyebrow.

“Well, come on, you’re not getting off easy this time. Dumbledore’s disappointed in you.” He walked forward, briskly, grabbing Harry by the shoulder and turning him around to walk off. Harry bowed his head, annoyed that Dumbledore was disappointed and disappointed that he had been caught so soon in the day.

They walked in silence, Snape a little farther away from Harry then before, and behind him, keeping a watchful eye on the boy and the people around him. They walked for a long time in silence, before Snape, still glowering, drew a breath and asked the question Harry had been dreading.

“When did I ever mention Robert Frost, Mr. Potter?” Professor Snape demanded.

“Nothing sir,” Harry mumbled. “It was a mistake.”

“I don’t believe you,” Snape snapped. “Tell me Potter, or shall I use...other methods?” Snape was intrigued by the letter, but he hell-bound not to say so. Harry picked up on it anyway, and instantly knew what other methods Snape could use.

“It was a dream,” he instantly regretted the words. “Not a Tom induced dream...just a normal dream.”

“I was in it?” he sounded as if he was horrified by the mere fact.

“Yeah, sort of,” Harry shrugged while his stomach rumbled loudly.

“You know, Mr. Potter, most people eat by fo—”

“No!” Harry cried out, cutting Professor Snape off. The man raised an eyebrow and Harry shrugged. “I don’t want to know the time...don’t ask.” They started to walk again, and suddenly, Snape veered off course, startling Harry. “Err—sir?”

“Come Potter, we have along enough walk. I don’t want to listen to the grumbling of your stomach the whole time.” He led a startled Harry into a sandwich shop and without consulting the boy ordered two sandwiches. Harry was startled to realize that Snape had gotten his sandwich right though. “I’ve seen you eat enough times over the past six years to know what you prefer.”

“Thanks,” Harry mumbled, startled and confused.

“You’ll pay me back,” Snape said simply. “The dream.” He ordered and with Snape that was enough anymore. Sighing, Harry took a bite of his sandwich and with much reluctance went into the story of his dream.

How he and Snape got along for that time, Harry was never sure. However, the whole time they managed, though often full of sarcastic wit and a such a loss of points that had it been the school year Gryffindor would’ve been in the negative range, though the managed not to kill each other and Harry kept his angry abated.

“Mr. Potter, I think you need to learn to take life slowly,” Snape snarled once they had finally managed to finish the conversation. “Can’t even go a few months without something happening.”

“What do you think it means, sir?” Harry asked, flustered. Snape was definitely not a quiet man when explaining something and kept his interruptions coming so often that Harry was horribly annoyed.

“You’ll have to figure out for yourself,” Snape retorted, standing up while bundling up his trash. Harry decided not to ask how Snape knew how to handle muggle money. “Come, or we’ll be late.”

With that they stood up and left. Harry walking quickly to keep up with Snape’s stride.

“Mr. Potter, do tell me there’s a reason for that hideous belt around your waist.” Harry flushed, glad for the beating heat, knowing that the redness could be mistaken for the sun’s heat.

“I—err—you—no reason—” Harry stuttered, rubbing his neck and looking around in a way to distract himself.

“Tell me Potter,” Snape snarled.

“No,” Harry snapped back, annoyed that Snape was pressing him. Snape whirled around. “I don’t have to tell you everything!”

“You’ll speak with proper respect Potter,” he snapped and with that he whirled around and stalked off. Harry followed him, realizing just how much he had offended Snape.

It wasn’t like Harry was telling Snape everything, they didn’t get along that well, their pervious conversation was full of barter and loss of points.

They were walking in silence again and Harry was surprised to find himself feeling a bit bad for hurting Snape’s feeling, if he did that. Snape was a hard man to figure out.

Finally, they arrive at Privet Drive and from what Harry could see; the house was still dark meaning no Dursleys. He smiled slightly to himself. At least he couldn’t have to deal with the Dursleys, Dumbledore would be enough.

“They’re Dudley’s,” Harry finally said, surprising himself and Snape just the same, though the man hid his surprise quickly.

“What?” Snape snarled his face creased in shadows.

“My clothing.” Harry shrugged and fished in his pocket for a key. “I only get Dudley’s hand-me-downs and if I wear my good clothing, from school, they’ll just take ‘em away.” He shrugged again. “Thanks for lunch Professor; I’ll pay you back when I can.”

“Mr. Potter, I know you’re life isn’t great here,” Snape commented, surprising Harry. “If things get—bad—I won’t rescue you, help you...do it yourself.”

“What?” Harry asked, confused.

“You’ve chosen a path but you’ll have to make your own way through it. Maybe this will be one of your choices.” Snape didn’t clear himself up and Harry found himself confusedly walking back to the Dursley house. He knew Snape was watching him until he entered the house and maybe afterward.

888

A week later, several scolding letters later, and meals lacking food because of the sudden sourness of the yard, Harry was worn beyond belief on his bed.

Uncle Vernon was peeved at him, blaming Harry’s ‘freakishness’ for the reason for the failure of the garden. Things were turning steadily worse....

“You’ve chosen a path but you’ll have to make your own way through it. Maybe this will be one of your choices.” Snape’s words suddenly whirled through his head, and he had a sudden idea.

Sitting up, not knowing rather this was what Snape meant to not, he set to work, making his plan perfect...