The silence of the room was suffocating, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire, and Lupin’s tapping foot. Harry blinked. Once. Twice. His mind was whirling with questions. Christmas? Why had Christmas come early? He was going to Snape’s home for the holiday. Did that mean they had to make the trip earlier than planned? Was he going to have to spend more time with Snape? That would certainly explain why the potions master was so angry. Harry chanced a glance at him. He was seething, his black eyes darting around the room so that they were little more than a frighteningly dark, furious blur.

"Perhaps you ought to sit down, Harry," Lupin said kindly, squeezing the boy’s shoulder. Harry winced and pulled away, his eyes wide.

"There is quite a bit of explaining that needs to be done," interjected Dumbledore, pushing Harry into a chair. He turned to Snape, nodding. "Severus."

As though he had been expecting this, Snape sprang into action, his wand drawn. He pointed it at the door, muttering in a language Harry reckoned to be Latin, but who knew for sure? The doors and walls glowed violet for a moment before fading back to their original state.

"For privacy," Dumbledore explained, giving Harry an encouraging smile. "We are in th dungeons, after all, Harry."

Snape jerked, and Harry thought he could hazard a guess at what caused such a movement. This was Snape’s dungeon, and he was probably proud of it, if only a little. It was the same for Harry with his little bedroom back in Surrey. He didn’t like having the smallest bedroom, but anyone making fun of it and he would have shouted himself hoarse.

"What—what does this mean, ‘Christmas come early’, professor? Do I have to go to Snape’s house? (The man twitched again, a vein working in his temple.) Professor McGonagall ended the whole Quidditch practice for—"

Dumbledore held up a finger for silence, that same pleasant smile still on his face, the one that never reached his eyes. "If you would allow me to, my boy, I can give you some answers, or perhaps you prefer to sit and ask questions all night and never be told a thing; the choice is entirely yours."

That shut him up. He clamped his jaw together, eyes staring fixedly on Dumbledore.

"That’s a boy. Now, to business."

Snape and Lupin pulled up chairs, flanking the Headmaster, their faces grim. They said nothing.

"I had hoped you would have at least some rudimentary skills in Occlumency before it came to this, Harry, but Professor Snape tells me you have mastered very little." Dumbledore frowned, the disappointment clear in his voice. Harry squirmed in his chair, uncomfortably aware of the fact that he had done very little to learn as he promised he would. "But there is time, still. As of the moment, you are not in any danger of having Legilimency used against you by anyone who could possibly pose a threat to either you or Professor Snape, however, I would appreciate if you would place these lessons at the top of your priority list, Harry. It is most important."

Harry nodded, suddenly feeling rather stupid, like a small child who has just been reprimanded for not giving in his homework to a favorite teacher.

"As such, I have increased your lessons to three times a week. You may work out times with Professor Snape, although I don’t believe it will be so difficult after—Well, back to the reason we’ve brought you here." Dumbledore’s voice grew serious, the flickering light from the fireplace reflecting off of his half-moon spectacles. Harry’s ears perked up. "For many years, the Ministry of Magic has been trying to revoke your Uncle and Aunt’s rights as your legal guardians, to make you a ward of the Ministry."

Harry’s mouth dropped open, a cry of ‘But, sir!’ escaping his lips. Dumbledore smiled again, holding up his hand.

"I know, Harry, and so it is obvious to you why I have refused them every time. It was simple to thwart them at first. They came during the summer when you would have turned six, politely requesting guardianship and providing countless reasons of why it would be beneficial to you. I, of course, refused, and they could do nothing, as no one knew where your relatives’ house was, and either way, they would never be able to get past the wards. A few years came and went. On your eleventh birthday they requested again, a little more forcefully this time, but none the less polite. Cornelius was clever enough to understand that I would not respond to intimidation. I refused again, saying that your proper place would be at Hogwarts, and then back in Surrey for the summer. It was, after all, the place you would no doubt be safest."

Harry choked, receiving a thunder-eyed glare form Snape and a pitying look from Lupin, he ignored both, and continued to listen to Dumbledore. What was all of this, then? Dumbledore said he’d tell everything in fifth year, so why was this being revealed now, months later?

Seemingly unaware of his student’s unrest, Dumbledore plowed on. "Then you arrived, Harry, and I realized how serious this really was. It was obvious to me that you were not properly cared for with the Dursleys (Snape twitched), and yet I knew that you were still safest with them, so long as they allowed you under their roof. In the summer before your third year, the Ministry came to me once more. Sirius had just escaped Azkaban, and was believed to be after you, as you already know. Cornelius came after me in a way he never had before, and we argued several times. In the end, you were left in Diagon Alley, under the Ministry’s nose enough to satisfy them, but still under the custody of your relatives. I fought all year to keep it that way, and won in the end. Two more years passed by, and by then, the Ministry lost interest. You were no longer important to them, considering how ‘mad’ you were.

"Unfortunately, as luck would have it, my boy, you were proved innocent and completely sane, renewing the pursuit for legal guardianship that had been abandoned before. This summer, I have had several offers and rather rude threats made, all of which I refused." Here Dumbledore stopped, his fingers drumming absently on Snape’s desk, several potions essays knocked from their neat piles and sent spinning to the floor. Harry could almost taste the nervousness and anger in the room, and it made him acutely uncomfortable.

So, the Ministry wanted him, did they? That wasn’t anything new. Fudge had always liked to keep Harry under his nose, and the new Minister probably wasn’t so different. The Ministry, he noted, seemed to follow the same pattern. They blundered things up, tried to cover their mistakes, blundered a bit more, did a bit more covering up, and so on. It was a cycled of idiots trying to look like they knew exactly what they were doing, when they really had no clue at all what was going on. For some reason, the very thought brought to Harry’s mind the image of Snape trying to drive Uncle Vernon’s company car.

"This is not humorous, Potter!" Snape bit out, his face impassive, black eyes unfathomable. He appeared to be deep in thought.

"Really, Severus, let the boy alone. This is very important, and I’m sure Harry understands that, don’t you, Harry?" Lupin’s lips curved into a slight, almost forced-looking smile.

"I—" Harry began, but was interrupted by Snape.

"If everyone let that idiot boy alone, he would be lying six feet under, with nothing but a grave marker, and a legacy of arrogance and disrespect left to him!" said Snape, slamming his fist into the desk. Both Harry and Lupin jumped; Dumbledore, who was in the process of sucking on a lemon drop, paid them no mind.

"Severus, be reasonable!" cried Lupin, his eyes wide. "Harry has been nothing but brave and selfless. Surely you can—"

But whatever it was, Snape apparently could not do it, for he rose from his seat, pale face flushed, mouth open, spewing spit at Lupin’s face and robes as he bellowed, "I have put up with quite a bit more from this boy than you have, Lupin, having saved his neck several times, once, if I remember correctly, from YOU, and I’ll not have him laughing this entire situation off as a joke, which he most certainly WILL DO!"

"For Merlin’s sake, Snape, he isn’t James!"

That was enough for Snape. He strode over to Harry, yanking him up by the arm with a hissed, "Up, Potter!" and shoved him in front of Lupin, who looked shocked. Harry pulled away, wishing very much to be anywhere else. When he got old enough, he decided, after Voldemort was dead, he would buy a big house and only let people in when the mood suited him, and Snape would always be left out, because he was such a git. Harry would have massive parties, with loads of people, and Snape would have to stand outside and watch as Harry and his friends partied and had fun.

"Look at his face," Snape snarled, his eyes glinting with malice and loathing. He pushed the boy forward, long fingers digging into the small of his back with unrestrained force. "Look at his face, Lupin! James Potter is written over every inch of this (he jabbed his finger into Harry’s cheek, causing it to throb painfully), and this (moving on to his chest), and every joke you allow him to get away with in that class of yours!"

Lupin started, his jaw opening and then closing over and over again. "Severus, you can’t really—"

"DON’T LIE TO ME," Snape spat, his fist wrapped around Harry’s arm, crushing it . . . . "I hear of every mockery, wolf, every one! You think it’s funny, carrying on the legacy of your dearly departed friends, dressing a Boggart as Snivellus in a grandmother’s dress, calling me an Inferi, but I’ll have no more of it! Potter will learn respect if I have to beat it into him. It is about time—"

"Quite right, Severus," Dumbledore interrupted, his tone light, but it was quite obvious form the stern look in his eyes that meant the discussion was over. "It is about time this argument ended. Harry, sit down, if you would, I still have much to explain."

They quieted, both Snape and Lupin looking down as Harry returned to his chair, glad to be away from the two. Honestly, it was as bad as Sirius had been back in his kitchen last Christmas. Sirius, who would never get to sit in his kitchen again, none the less argue over some petty school rivalry. He pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind, returning his attention once again to the Headmaster.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, casting a stern look around the room before continuing. "Now, as I was saying, Rufus Scrimgeour is not a man that can easily be discouraged. He is determined to have you under his control, Harry, and the battle grew to new heights this summer, following an anonymous tip-off claiming that I knew you were being mistreated by your muggle relations." He coughed, popping another lemon drop into his mouth and stroking his chin, all the while regarding Harry with a reserved, piercing gaze.

"Is that why you were fighting, Professor?" Harry asked quickly, looking interested. "The Prophet mentioned it."

Dumbledore smiled, and, for the first time that night, it reached all the way to his blue eyes. "Well, the Prophet is bound to be right one of these days, Harry, and, yes, that is part of the reason for out argument. You see, it appears that Rufus has managed to persuade the entire Wizengamot to back him on this. For several months now they have demanded to see you, and I am afraid that we will not be able to postpone a court date for much longer, Harry, which brings us back to the reason you have been called here.

"You see, I received some most disturbing news this summer, nothing that should concern you too greatly, my boy, but disturbing all the same. It became apparent that we were in desperate need of a plan, so, naturally, I put my rather brilliant mind to work. My next inspiration came in the form of a message from Molly Weasley. She told me of your changing appearance, how you were starting to look a bit peaky, and I knew it was time. Lily’s charm had worn off, and I would need to tell you about, well, I would need to tell you about your proper parentage. It was then that my idea struck me." Dumbledore waved his wand with a dramatic flare, extinguishing the fire so that the only lights left in the room were weak, flickering little pools cast by Snape’s black tapers.

"I requested that Professor Lupin rejoin us, for he is a crucial part of this plan. I also arranged for your visit to Professor Snape’s home and the continuing of your Occlumency lessons, as they will be of the utmost importance." He paused to throw Harry a rather stern, pointed look from over his half-moon spectacles. "Whatever is spoken of in this room, Harry, I must ask you never to repeat it to anyone, not even Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger."

Harry nodded hastily, his green eyes never leaving Dumbledore’s face.

"The Ministry has grown bold. They demand your appearance in court in three weeks for the guardianship hearing, and I am most certain we will lose, which is why I have called an ‘early Christmas’, as you might say." The Headmaster smiled to himself, tugging at his beard a bit. "Within the course of the next two weeks, Harry, we will be preparing you for what may be the biggest act of your life. My temporary charm will be removed, restoring your natural features once again. Fortunately, such short notice will not ruin this plot, for it is timed impeccably with the full moon."

It was Lupin’s turn to shift uncomfortably as Harry mouthed ‘full moon?", looking befuddled. What did the full moon have to do with anything? Well, obviously it meant Remus’s involvement, but that was already to be expected, considering he was sitting right there.

"There is a Quidditch game coming up in a week and a half, Harry, and I am sorry, but I must insist that Gryffindor loses."

"But, professor!" Harry burst, rising from his chair and nearly knocking it onto its side. His hands were balled into fists, feet planted a shoulder-width apart. What did Gryffindor losing a match have to do with anything?

"Now, now, Harry, sit down. You have not listened to everything yet."

He sat, reluctantly, swinging his feet furiously into the legs of the chair and causing Snape to fix him with a look that could melt a cauldron.

"By the time the match comes around, you will no longer be playing. The full moon will be coming up in three nights from then, and Professor Lupin will be under the effects of Polyjuice, posing as you."

"But what will I . . . ."

"Silence, Potter."

"Just listen to Dumbledore, Harry."

"As I was saying, Professor Lupin has graciously offered to take the Polyjuice, being the most suitable choice, I think. You will have to teach him a bit more about yourself, things to convince your friends."

"But why . . . ." Harry clamped his mouth shut, his feet tapping impatiently on the stone floor. He wanted to know what was going on now. Why was Dumbledore stalling?

"You will have arrived a week before as Padriac Domingart, the orphaned boy from Accademia di Puro-Sangue, the newly acquired apprentice of our own Potions Master, Severus Snape."

Time stopped. Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Two. Three.

Snape’s apprentice? A potions apprentice? He knew nothing of potions, as the man was always more than pleased to point out. But to be the man’s apprentice . . . . Snape would have more power than he needed, more than was wise, and how did they know he could be trusted at all? What if he was just waiting for the moment Harry went into disguise, just so he could hand-deliver him to Voldemort?

"It is prudent that we allow Professor Lupin as much time as possible to be you, so as not to attract unwanted attention or suspicion to your new identity. Harry Potter needs to be here for quite a bit when Padriac arrives. After we have established this firmly, Harry Potter will take a horrible fall, be dosed with the wrong healing potion entirely, and sent to a safe place to recuperate. He should be expected to be gone for at least the rest of the year, in which he will be writing letters to his friends, only after his health has been improved a bit, to assure them that everything is fine. Professor Lupin will return from the full moon, and the Ministry, as well as certain other . . . obstacles, will not be able to touch you, so long as you are able to master Occlumency and keep our secret."

The room fell into complete silence. Harry stared at his knees, counting the threads of his trousers, trying vaguely to remember what colored pants he had on. Probably white. They usually were.

"And . . . Professor McGonagall, she knows, does she? And the Order as well?" He spoke to his trousers, fingering the black material, stroking the soft fabric of his robes.

"No," said Dumbledore, and he sounded regretful. "It would be too dangerous for anyone outside of this room to know of the plan. Regrettably, this includes both Minerva and the Order. I simply had Professor Snape send a house-elf to her, telling her that you were stealing from him and were facing another month of detentions and fifty points from Gryffindor. Naturally, she is quite furious, but I will have a little chat with her, I think, and perhaps restore those points." Dumbledore stood, brushing off his spangled robes and motioning to Harry. "Off you go, Harry. If I am not mistaken, you should be just in time for curfew."

He turned to leave, nodding. "And remember—secrecy, discretion. Both will be undoubtedly important. Not even Ms. Granger or Mr. Weasley."

Harry shook his head, uttering a sleepy, "Yes, Professor."

"Get out of my office, Potter," said Snape, shooing the remaining party into the corridor before slamming the door.Goodnight to you to, sir, thought Harry, rubbing his eyes.

O O O

"And you’re certain this will work?" Hermione looked suspicious, her brown eyes darting between Harry and Ron. "You’ve tested it and everything?"

Ron gave a long, suffering sigh, his ears bright pink, betraying him. "Of course, Hermione, now just get on, will you."

Harry watched in amusement as Ron tried to convince Hermione to mount his broomstick. Hermione had never been much of a flyer. It was something no book could teach her, something that took lots of practice and, of course, natural talent, which she most certainly lacked.

"Stop pushing me, Ronald, I’m not a rag doll!"

"Well, maybe if you’d just get on the sodding thing—"

"It’s not my fault you’re talking up three quarters of the handle, is it!"

"It’s your fault you can’t mount properly, if that’s what you mean!"

"It was your idea in the first place, Ron, and I don’t remember seeing much of a spectacular flying display from you during the last game!" Hermione said hotly, her face turning the color of Ron’s hair.

Harry sighed and turned away, feeling slightly disappointed. He had been hoping for a pleasant, somewhat calm last week and a half before becoming Padriac Domingart, but all his friends could do was row. At least it kept them finding out about the plan, but he wished they could have at least had a bit of consideration. But then, they didn’t know about any of it, did they? They didn’t know his time was so limited.

". . .stop being ridiculous, honestly . . ."

". . .acting like you know everything . . ."

" . . .just because you’re failing half of your classes doesn’t make me a know-it-all . . ."

They were standing at least two meters apart, fists clenched, gritting their teeth. Not wanting to get himself involved, Harry backed away, calling that he had another lesson with Snape, which wasn’t a horrible lie. He did have one, in another hour.

Severus Snape better really like surprises, Harry thought grimly, trekking mud back into the castle.

He wound through the corridors, dodging behind several suits of armor at the sounds of footsteps; Filch would no doubt be on the warpath after seeing the mess Harry had made, but he couldn’t blame anyone if he never found a suspect, could he? Pleased with his cleverness, Harry descended into the dungeons, feeling slightly more light-hearted than he had all week. He stopped in front of Snape’s office, the usual feeling of dread and anxiety filling his stomach as it made its ascent into his throat.

"Come in, Potter."

He took a deep breath and opened the door, unsurprised by the sight of Snape sitting at his desk, looking more than a little frustrated and twice as sour. His eyes were squinted, mouth drawn into a firm line, the creases in his forehead more pronounced than ever, nostrils flaring dangerously.

"You did not gather the nerve to grace me with your presence so you could simply stand and watch me grade papers, Potter. Sit down," Snape ordered, not even bothering to look at Harry. He knew the boy would obey.

Harry chose a seat opposite the desk, the same one he’d been sitting in just last night, when Dumbledore and Lupin and Snape and him were all discussing the new plan.

"You are failing my class," announced Snape, his eyes still glued to the stack of parchment before him. Harry gulped and nodded. "I believe Remedial Potions lessons are in order, unless, by some miracle, you manage to bring your grade up to an Average within the next few days."

He’d forgotten. His grade would change when he switched identities. Was Padriac Domingart good at potions? Harry hoped not. But then, wouldn’t he be expected to have some talent, seeing as how he was going to be Snape’s apprentice? Snape would most certainly not take an apprentice with such mediocre skill.

Harry twiddled his thumbs, wondering whether Snape even remembered he was here. They sat for ages, Snape grading, Harry doing nothing. He glanced at the door for the five hundredth time, plotting to get away before Snape finished. This was taking far too long. Why had he come to Snape at all? Because of the Occlumency lessons that would take place in fifteen minutes? Why would anyone in their right mind want to waste an hour sitting in the Greasy Git’s office, watching him fail half a class because they hadn’t been sorted into the right house?

"Stand up, Potter."

Finally. Snape set down his quill, drawing his wand and motioning for Harry to do the same.

"Have you practiced clearing your mind?" His tone was soft, almost caressing. Harry felt his stomach sinking as he realized that in all the mess of the night before, he had forgotten to do as he promised Dumbledore. The corners of the potion master’s lips twitched into a smirk, and he said silkily, "We shall see, won’t we—Legilimens!"

Harry clenched his jaw, bracing himself.

Ron and Hermione were rowing, their faces scarlet, standing apart like duelers while Harry stood helplessly and watched.

Baby Harry was playing with his mum, the doorbell rang and Snape came in, his nose wrinkled.

"Adorable."

But he didn’t think Harry was adorable. He didn’t even like him.

Voldemort was taunting a fourteen year-old Harry, brandishing his wand and making jokes to his Death Eaters as they laughed.

It occurred to him that perhaps Snape might have been in that circle, laughing along with the rest, pleased to see his enemy’s spawn being tortured and humiliated.

Harry was eight, and Dudley’s friend Dennis was teasing him about his parents, not noticing as his nose grew to the size of a cantaloupe, before it obstructed his vision completely.

Voldemort was holding his finger to Harry’s scar, watching with pleasure as the boy screamed in pain, while a skinny, masked Death Eater behind them twitched uncomfortably.

"That will be enough, Potter." Snape’s voice was cold, menacing even, in the bare dungeons. "Sit down."

Harry sat nervously, crossing his legs. Was he going to be lectured? Shouted at? Was Snape going to give him more detentions, or perhaps berate him for his stupidity?

"It has obviously not yet penetrated that thick head of yours how important these lessons are to your survival, Potter, so I am going to put it into better perspective for you."

Harry gulped, wishing he could run off and hide from the glare Snape was currently sending his way. Where did the man even get it from? His ugliness, his temper, his piercing glares? His father, perhaps? The man must have been pure-blood. There was no way a muggle would have been so . . . disagreeable, with the exception of the Dursleys, of course, but even they weren’t so horribly ugly. In fact, Harry suspected, if his aunt tried a bit more and Dudley and Uncle Vernon lost weight, they’d be much more appealing.

"You will be acting as my apprentice, Potter, which means you will be subject to certain . . . questionable people. As such, you will need to have mastered Occlumency, because they will waste no time in invading your pathetic mind. The Dark Lord is a stranger to leniency, Potter, and I see now that I have been far too lenient with you."

Oh, dear. Somehow, it didn’t seem as if Snape was about to reward Harry with a biscuit.

"I believe it is time you learned a little discipline, Potter," he articulated, pacing in front of the boy, black robes billowing about with each step. Harry could help but wonder if they were a special kind of robe, made for intimidating billowing and such.

"I’ll try harder, sir," Harry insisted eagerly, trying to dissuade Snape from any unpleasant ideas were forming in that sick, twisted mind of his. He obviously like to see people suffer. Was he going to torture Harry? Would he beat him or make him swallow vile potions all night?

"I dare say you will, Potter, but you are obviously not capable of doing so yourself," raged Snape. His eyebrows were drawn almost to his black eyes, which remained empty, reminding Harry of little black tunnels. "From now on, you will tell me every last, painful detail of your wretched life, beginning form infancy and carrying on to now. We will begin next lesson, and Potter, do not be tediously detailed, or I may take it upon myself to find a new solution for this issue, one in which you will not be pleased."

Snape’s threat hung in the air, making the room seem somehow colder, the air thinner. Harry nodded in acquiescence, his nose pink.

"Yes . . . sir."

"Get out of my office for the night. I have no further uses for your talent less mind," Snape sneered, his face hard. He waved his hand and the door flung open, Harry striding purposefully into the corridor, trying to maintain some dignity after having been thrown out yet again.

The corridors were empty on his way back, and Harry found himself in the common room sooner than he expected. It too was empty, the fire crackling in the grate, looking small and lonely and forlorn.

I know how you feel, thought Harry, and, for a brief moment, he could have sworn the flames had answered with a low, "Go to bed, Potter," but it was probably just Snape’s voice still stuck in his head. After all, since when could one have a conversation with fire?