Harry was sitting on his cot, trainer-clad feet swinging into the door of the cupboard, a book clutched tightly in his pale, little hands. He sighed and opened to book for the sixtieth time, running his fingers over the letters. To his four year-old mind, they were little more than random parts of the alphabet smashed together on a page, but, here and there, words were starting to form in front of his eyes. Pushing up his glasses, he read the page slowly, liking the feel of the thick cardboard in his palms.

"T-H-E. . . the . . .B-I-G . . . b-bi-ig. Big. The big t-tru-uck. The big truck." He smiled, pleased with himself for getting it right. Dudley couldn’t even read tiny words yet, as much as Aunt Petunia tried to get him to learn. ("You’ve got to know this for school next year, Diddykins!")

But Dudley didn’t want to learn. He wanted to watch the television and eat his ice cream, so Harry was more than happy to rescue his new book—Wheels!—from the toilet, where it had been thrown in a violent tantrum. Aunt Petunia would most likely be angry with him when she found it, but he reckoned he had some time before she decided to look behind the bleach. He smiled, content with the knowledge that his prize was safe, at least for now.

"The big t-truck d-d-riv . . . D-R-I-V-E-S." He knew that word. It was on one of the big signs to the side of the road when Uncle Vernon took him to the eye doctor, only it looked a little different on those. Some of the letters had changed. "D-R-I-V-E-S," he said again, studying the page intensely. "D-dri-ive-s. Drives. The big truck drives."

Harry clapped his hands, bouncing excitedly on the cot. He’d done it, hadn’t he? He’d read a whole sentence by himself, and a difficult one at that. Grinning, he moved on to the next sentence, completely unaware of the dark-haired boy quietly watching him from the other end of the cot.

The older Harry watched his younger self, a frown forming on his lips. He couldn’t even remember being so young. When was the last time his hands had been that small? His untidy black hair was even messier at the age of four, green eyes looking positively massive from behind his too-big glasses. He wanted to reach out and touch the little boy, tell him how clever he was for teaching himself to read. He wanted to warn him of the year to come, the teasing and the time being locked in the cupboard for crimes he couldn’t make out how he’d committed in the first place, but, of course, he couldn’t. The small boy on the other end of the cot was only a memory, and had no idea what lie for him in the future.

"Boy! Come out, your uncle wants a word!" Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice pierced through the tiny cupboard, sending shivers down the spine of both boys. They stood, reluctantly, Little Harry quickly stashing his stolen book behind a bottle of bleach before opening the door. "He’s in the parlor, and be quick. I need you to mind the soup while I give Dudley his bath," she paused, eying him suspiciously. "What have you been doing in there?"

The four year-old Harry jumped, his little face turned up, grimacing as his hair was held tightly in his aunt’s bony fist. "I was l-looking," he said hesitantly, doing his best to sound convincing.

"At what?"

That question was certainly unexpected. He screwed up his face thoughtfully, trying to think up a good lie. "The c-cleaning bottles. I can read some of the l-letters now. The white one says ‘bleach’."

This time, Harry knew he wouldn’t be questioned further, for his aunt hissed, "You’re a nasty little liar, aren’t you? Of course the white one says bleach. You’ve used it before to clean. I’ll be surprised if they don’t keep you back a year when you get into school, boy, what with the lies you tell. They’ll never be able to tell that you’ve done your work." So saying, she dragged him into the parlor, his trainers shuffling slowly across the carpeted floor.

Harry watched them go, chewing his bottom lip uneasily. Half of him wanted to follow, even though he already knew what would happen. He wanted to see it again. He wanted to warn his little self that Uncle Vernon was in a bad mood after having lost an important order, and not to anger him more by sharing his new accomplishment of learning to read, not if he wanted to eat for the next week. A pincer-like grip on his arm made Harry turn around sharply. All it took was Snape’s "We’ve seen enough, Potter." to make him move.

With the cold floor of the dungeons now firmly under their feet, Harry and Snape moved away from the Pensieve and toward the centre of the room, their feat slapping noisily against the smooth stones. They were silent for a moment, until Snape, his black eyes dark and unfathomable on his sallow face, said evenly, "You lived in the cupboard, Potter?’

That was enough for Harry. He grit his teeth, green eyes glaring from behind the slightly scratched lenses of his round-frame glasses. "No," he exalted sarcastically, "I just liked to lock myself in there every day, you know, to hang out. Didn’t I ever mention how much I enjoy starving in a cramped room, talking to spiders until I thought I’d go mad? The cupboard was only my second choice, really, right after the linen closet in the hall . . . ."

"Enough," ordered Snape, holding up his hand for silence. Harry quieted, furious at having been interrupted so rudely. What was the point in dredging all his miserable childhood memories? "Manners, boy. Ten points from Gryffindor," Snape licked his lips before continuing softly, "I will repeat my question once more, Potter, and you will give me a proper response—Did you live in the cupboard?"

Harry chewed his bottom lip mercilessly, scratching his chin. What if he simply refused to answer? It would probably land him in detention, but even that had to be better than admitting to his sworn enemy—the man who also happened to share blood with him—that his relatives had treated him like a dog for fifteen years.

"I live in my cousin’s second bedroom," he faltered, somewhat relieved to have a truthful, yet non-descriptive answer. Even with Occlumency, Snape would never be able to prove him wrong.

"Then, Potter! Where did you live then?"

It was obvious to Harry that his fath—Snape—was not in a mood to deal with his smart answers. He sighed, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and looked the man in the eye, muttering, "Cupboard."

Snape seemed to grow, his fist outstretched as he charged toward Harry and pushed the boy into a chair. "Why?"

It was one simple word, and yet, none before had seemed quite so terrifying. How was he supposed to answer this one without humiliating himself any more? Why did Snape have to be such a nosy git? "Because I liked it," Harry frowned, rising to his feet once more. "I liked living in the cupboard under the stairs, alright? I liked the spiders and my one bleeding book, and I liked minding the soup for Aunt Petunia when I was dying of hunger myself. Are you happy now? You were right. I’m a spoiled little prat. I made them let me live in the cupboard, because I’m too good for their ratty bedrooms, and I’ve only just started living in one because my family decided I was too big for my cupboard and had to force me out of it!"

Fists balled tightly, Harry began to pace in front of the man, his face slightly pink with exertion. If only Snape had objects like Dumbledore—delicate little things on tables that he could throw. But, alas, there were only the jars of slimy things lining the walls, and Harry wasn’t even sure he wanted one of those opened up. They were vile-looking enough to make his stomach turn at the mere sight of them.

"Potter—"

"You can go tell everyone now that you were right! I’m just a pampered, arrogant little prick like my dad was—"

"Potter, if you will—"

"—Maybe I should start bullying people, should I? I could string them up by their ankles and take their knickers off—"

"Potter, you will be silent, or—"

"—And I could start ruffling my hair, and eying Ginny Weasley, and—"

"SILENCE!"

Harry stood stock-still, mouth slightly agape, his eyes narrowed. Ginny Weasley? Where did Ginny come in? She was Ron’s sister. He liked her in a big-brother sort of way, right?

She is sort of pretty, said the annoying voice in his head. He shook it out.

, said the annoying voice in his head. He shook it out.She’s my best mate’s sister.

But she’s pretty.

It’s too awkward.

And clever, she’s clever, too.

He’d break every bone in my body.

Not if you break him first.

But she’s my best mate’s sister.

"Fascinating as your love-life is, Potter, I do not care to waste my evening listening to your ranting on Ms. Weasley, or any other miscellaneous information that does not have to do with our lesson," Snape growled, fixing Harry with a glare that would have any first year cowering in their trainers. "Now, you will come here and bring another memory, unless, of course, you would like me to extract one again myself?"

Still grumbling, Harry shuffled over, wracking his brain for a pleasant memory from early childhood. There were very few of them, but at last he managed to pull up a suitable one, planting himself defiantly in front of the Potions Master, his green eyes flashing.

"I’ve got one by myself, thanks," he said snidely, allowing Snape to raise the tip of his wand to his temple and withdraw the silvery strand. Watching carefully as it was placed in Dumbledore’s Pensieve, Harry stepped forward and muttered, "Let’s just get this over with."

They were standing in a muggle classroom that Harry recognized to be the one from his first year in primary school. He turned to Snape, looking pleased. "My primary school, first form." At the man’s brief nod, Harry spun back around, taking in the room.

There were colorful children’s drawings adorning the walls, some that he could identify as his own. His were always slightly darker, with depictions of normal, every-day, Dursley-Approved life. But, Harry knew, hidden somewhere in each drawing was something out of the ordinary. On the one of the boy reading a book, there was a dragon on the little, blue cover. There were witches on the television of "Family Watches the Telly", and the motorcycle of his vehicle-theme drawing was hovering ever-so-slightly above the pavement.

"Potter." Snape’s voice cut through his reverie, pulling him grudgingly back to reality.

"Shhh, look." Harry pointed to his younger self, now aged to five years, his messy black hair cut shorter than before. The round glasses were missing.

"What are you drawing, Harry?" The teacher, a kindly young woman with warm brown eyes and rust-colored hair, bent over his paper, smiling at the squiggles of crayon and glue.

"My mum," said the boy absently, giving her a crooked smile and two big, lopsided shapes that jutted out from behind her. "And my dad." He pointed to a mess of black, green, and blue, smiling at the clumsy stick-figure in a very self-satisfied way. "Mum is very pretty, and Dad’s got to look like me, see? He’s got my eyes and my face—" he pointed to a misshapen lump that looked rather like a black potato, with little hollowed, green circles inside. "And everything else looks like me as well, only my dad is loads bigger."

The teacher nodded, studying the paper. "And what are those things coming out of their backs? Are they standing in front of a cloud?"

Harry shook his head, pointing at the ceiling. "That’s their wings," he whispered, glancing around as though to make sure no one else had heard. "Mum and Dad went to the sky in a car accident, so now they’ve got wings, or they’d fall right back to the ground and get a boo-boo."

Unknown to little Harry, a very grumpy Potions Master was standing behind him, snorting at the pitiful drawing.

"Pathetic," he sneered, peering over the boy’s miniature shoulder. "You clearly lack artistic talent, Potter. You call those wings?" He snorted again. "They’re more like those horrid knit things Ms. Granger tried to give to the House Elves two years ago."

"You knew about those?" Harry started. He didn’t think Snape was so well-informed.

Snape scoffed. "Of course, Potter. I had to listen to the incessant complaining every time I went to re-stock the supply of Vomit-Vanishing Elixir in the kitchens."

Harry shook his head, returning his attention to the small, raven-haired boy in front of him.

"Oh, I’m very sorry, Harry," said the teacher, placing a hand on his shoulder. She studied his face, as if suddenly noticing something new. "Harry? Where are you glasses?"

Little Harry stared at his drawing, brows knit together tightly. He never liked these sorts of questions. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon didn’t ask them, and, when they did, it was usually because he had done something wrong.

"Harry?"

"Why didn’t you answer her?" Came Snape’s disapproving voice, his eyes piercing into the older Harry’s own, slightly sad, ones. "Potter, when I ask you a question, I expect an answer, and I do not appreciate being made to wait." Harry shook his head, pointing to the younger boy silently.

The five year-old had his head in the palms of his hands, with his skinny back hunched over the wooden table. "Didn’t want to," he murmured lowly, so that it was a strain for Harry, Snape, and the kindly teacher to hear.

"Why not?" She sounded sympathetic. He raised his head a little, peering out from between two fingers.

Both Snape and the older Harry leaned closer, their ears perked up to catch every sound.

"Everybody," whispered the boy, his eyes wide. "Everybody says only freaks . . . only freaks have got . . . those. I dun wanna be a freak no more. They said . . . they said I looked like," his voice lowered to little more than a soft hiss, "an owl."

Her face deadly serious, the teacher leaned in, her nose a mere inch from the child’s own. "If that’s true, Harry, then you’re the cutest owl I’ve ever seen. (Snape sniffed disbelievingly from behind.) Glasses don’t make you a freak, dear. My brother’s got them for reading, and he’s about as un-freakish as anybody could be, and so are you. If anyone says anything again, you come to me, alright? I’ll set them straight for you." She smiled, patted his back affectionately, and walked off to see how everyone else was doing.

Snape turned away in disgust, grabbing Harry’s arm, and pulling him away. "I believe it is time we left, Potter. My stomach cannot handle much more of this emotional nonsense," he said, wrinkling his nose. He looked a bit like an overgrown bat, swooping down, his black robes whipping over a table, unbeknown to the little girl that occupied it.

Harry scowled, pushing away and going back toward his younger self. "It’s not over."

"It’s not over, sir."

"You know, you can just call me ‘Harry’, professor." Harry grinned cheekily, dropping into one of the tiny, plastic chairs at the table. "Come and sit," he invited graciously, pointing to a yellow chair that had a Winnie the Pooh sticker stuck to the back.

"Five points from Gryffindor," said Snape stiffly, adding, "That is the most hideous chair I have ever seen." Shrugging, Harry turned back to the scene, his lips drawn into a thin line as he watched a fat, blond boy waddle over, holding out a purple crayon like a sword.

"Harry’s picture is ugly," he boy sneered, glancing around briefly to make sure the teacher wasn’t looking. "What do you call that—a blob with sticks coming out of it?" He laughed harshly, snatching the paper up and waving it around. A few other children laughed, scooting their chairs closer for a better view. Encouraged by this display of interest, the boy continued, his chubby face flushed. "I’ll make it better for you, cousin." He ripped half of it off, shredding the paper and tossing a little piece at the boy’s think face. "You’re a freak, Potter," snarled the fat boy, leaning in close.

Harry shook his head, his green eyes large, sparkling with a mixture of anger, fear, and unshed tears. "Not true."

The fat boy laughed again, tearing another piece and spitting on it. He slapped it onto the desk, narrowly missing his cousin’s slender hand, which was pulled away just in time. "My daddy says you’re a freak, and my daddy never lies. You’re an ugly, stupid, weird—er—ugly, poop-head, and you’ll be a rubbish collector when you grow up, ‘cos you’re so stupid and freaky and no one will ever want you." He smirked, the sickening expression a baby has when it has just relieved itself plastered on his face. "Not even your freaky parents wanted you, or they’d have taken you with them when they died. Nobody ever—"

"That is quite enough, Dudley. Kindly return to your seat, and don’t forget to move your sticker to red. We do not tolerate name-calling in this classroom." The teacher had returned, and she looked nothing short of furious. Moving toward Harry, she wrapped an arm around the boy’s upper body, guiding him to the door. "It’s recess in about a minute, Harry. Go wash your face and meet us outside, will you?" Smiling, she gave him a gentle push before closing the door.

Snape began walking, but Harry held him back, bringing himself unsteadily to his feet. "Not yet, professor," he said haltingly, holding up a hand. "We can go out with them. I’m almost done." Nodding curtly, the man returned to his place by the wall, glaring disdainfully at the colorful drawings. Did all muggle children display such a distinct lack of talent in art, or was it just Potter’s class?

When their drawings were finished and collected, the children scrambled for the door, forming an uneven line. They fidgeted, stamping their feet and whispering to one another, erupting into fits of manic giggles. Dudley stood at the back of the line, surrounded by his gang and leering at the rest. His group were rowdy and obnoxious, pushing each other out of the line and stomping on the feet of their unsuspecting victims. They complained loudly about the time it took to get outside, insulting the girl who stood nearest to them until she nearly burst into tears.

The rusty-haired teacher, her brown eyes squinted, interrupted with an audible, "Oustide, everyone. Dennis, you’re to stay against the wall with me today, and you, Piers. You’ll be joining them if you say that word one more time, Dudley Dursley."

The line moved rapidly out the door, the empty hallways of the school echoing with the sounds of fifteen small feet slapping against the polished linoleum. Harry and Snape followed, falling into step with the frazzled teacher. Snape glowered at everything from behind his greasy hair, snapping to Harry to keep up.

"Behave!" The woman sighed as a chorus of "Yes, Ms. Henley" met her ears. Where had Harry gone to?

Unknown to Ms. Henley, at the opposite end of the playground, near a red chain-link fence, a small party of people was beginning to form. Harry and Snape stood to the side, watching as Dudley and his gang circled around a scrawny boy with green eyes and a pale face. A few boys and girls were drifting over, watching the scene with mild interest. Harry looked at Snape, a smile playing on his lips at the sight of the man’s calculating expression.

"Time to go, professor," he said lightly, tugging at the black cloak. With a jolt, they found themselves standing once again in the Potion Master’s office. Snape looked murderous at having been taken from the memory so early, but Harry, on the other hand, looked unconcerned. He sat down at the desk, drumming his fingers on the stained wood and humming absently.

"Potter," Snape started, his face white, shaking with fury. "We do not leave the memories until I say, and I most certainly did not tell you it was time to leave!"

Harry shrugged, putting on a nonchalant air. Inside, he was terrified, but he wanted to win this. He needed to win this. Raising an eyebrow, Harry said calmly, "But you did say to leave, sir, just after—"

"Potter, you will be silent!"

That shut him up. His jaws snapped tightly shut, Harry crossed his arms, following Snape’s every movement with surprised, curious eyes.

"It is obvious to me that you lack structure in your life," stated Snape, his face dark. Harry shifted uncomfortably and scratched his nose. "Therefore," he continued, enunciating each syllable, "I have decided to write out a list of rules for you to follow. These will remain in effect after we take on our little guise, especially considering the magnitude of our act. It will be crucial for you to be well-behaved and capable of following my orders, Potter. The Dark Lord does not take kindly to cheek. I will give you the list tomorrow evening, after I draw it up, and I expect you to memorize and follow every rule and I guideline I post for you, lest you wish to suffer my extreme displeasure." He paused for dramatic effect, rather enjoying the spark of fear that flashed through Harry’s brilliant green eyes. Those were Lily Evans’ eyes. The boy had no right taking them.

"Sir, I—"

Snape spun around, his hair flipping in front of his pallid face. "Do not interrupt me, Potter!"

Harry started, but he wasn’t a Gryffindor for nothing. Gathering up his nerve, he faltered, "Sir, that was s’posed to be a happy memory, I just didn’t—"

"I.SAID. SILENCE!" bellowed Snape, flecks of spit flying from his mouth and onto Harry’s nose. "You will be meeting me here every night, Potter. Is that understood? Every night."

"Yes, professor, but if you would just let me explain—"

Forcing calm, Snape panted a low, "You have explained enough, Potter. I will—"

A knock at the door quieted them both.

"Professor Snape!"

Harry knew that voice anywhere. Muttering a few choice words under his breath, he backed away, trying unsuccessfully to hide behind the desk and banging his head on the worn chair. Snape, however, was more collected. Grabbing the boy roughly by his collar, he shoved Harry behind the door to his private store, carefully slid the Pensieve under his desk, and sat down, pulling a stack of papers over, all in about twenty seconds. "Come in, Draco," he announced smoothly, dabbing his quill in an inkwell of black ink.

The door flew open, revealing a flustered-looking Draco Malfoy, his usually perfectly groomed blond hair messy, a pink flush creeping into his cheeks. "Professor Snape, I’ve just been in the corridor and I heard—someone was screaming around the corner, sir. I tried to see who it was but—I thought you might be able to find out, sir."

That was all it took. Snape sprang up, pushing Malfoy roughly out of the way. "Follow me, Draco," he ordered sternly, throwing a murderous look in the direction of the store room. "I won’t be gone long." And, ignoring Malfoy’s puzzled look, he lead the boy out and down the corridor, leaving Harry to sit in the darkened room, peering out through a crack in the door. He sat down, pulling his knees up, not daring to step a foot outside, lest someone else should come.

Harry sat in his cramped position for what seemed like ages, counting the vowels on the labels of potion ingredients. His neck was beginning to hurt from craning upward, so he gave up his game and leaned cautiously against a heavy, oaken cabinet. It creaked, and he jumped, startled by the noise.

"Potter, come out."

There was the sound of a heavy door being closed, followed by light footsteps.

Suspicious, Harry rasped out, "Professor Snape?" His words were met by more footsteps as the door to the store room was opened, revealing a pale, livid-looking Severus Snape. "What was it?" Harry scrambled out, his muscles screaming in protest. H waited with bated breath, unsure of what to expect.

Snape turned curtly on his heel, motioning for Harry to follow. "We must see the Headmaster immediately, Potter."

"But, what was the—"

"Everything will be explained in time," snapped Snape, striding purposefully down the corridor. "Keep up, boy, and be quiet."

Clambering to keep up, Harry followed, his mouth clamped shut. The last thing they needed was to attract attention to themselves. He padded noiselessly up the stairs, not lowering his guard for a moment. He felt like a criminal, stealing through the castle after hours, following a frightening-looking man in billowing black robes. Malfoy probably wouldn’t bother him if he had robes like that. Perhaps he could ask Snape to take him to a shop that sold them? Where did one go to buy such robes, anyway?

"Acid Pops."

He allowed himself to be grabbed by the collar once more, grunting as Snape threw him bodily into Dumbledore’s Office, closing the door behind them. He looked around, taking a seat opposite the Headmaster’s chair. A disturbance to his left caught his eyes, and he turned, nearly falling out of his chair.

"Ah, Harry, Severus. I see you’ve received Fawkes’ message. I did hope he would be loud enough."

Dumbledore entered, smiling, flanked by a peaky-looking Remus Lupin. They filed in, Lupin appearing to be nervous and somewhat uneasy. Harry jumped up, readjusting his glasses and asking anxiously, "Professor Dumbledore! What’s going on?" The Headmaster smiled, nodding to Harry.

"All in due time, my boy, all in time," he said pleasantly, then turned to Snape and Lupin, suddenly changing his demeanor to a far more serious one.

"Severus, Remus, it is time for our little plan to be taken into action," he paused, smiling slightly, "I know, it is earlier than we originally devised, but Fawkes has brought me great news."

Snape stirred, his eyes darting from Fawkes to Dumbledore. "Headmaster?"

"Has Harry made any progress in Occlumency, Severus?"

Clearing his throat, Snape said gratingly, "Very little, Headmaster. We are trying a new approach. Potter takes the matter too lightly, still, but we are advancing, slowly."

Dumbledore nodded, his face grave. "Alright, well, that is to be expected. You are only just beginning, and I’m sure Harry understands that this is a very important matter, don’t you, Harry?" Without waiting for the boy to answer, he continued pleasantly, "The time has come, Harry, and I do hope you are ready. Complications or not, we will stick to our plan, my boy. Now, come here, so I can see your face one last time."

As the Headmaster pulled him close, Harry could have sworn he saw a tear in the man’s blue eyes, but he blinked, and it was gone.

"Close your eyes," said Dumbledore, and his voice was thick with emotion. Harry immediately obeyed, squeezing his eyes shut as tight as he could. It felt as though a light breeze was blowing over him, and his hands rose to his hair, which had grown at least two inches. His vision had grown blurry, so he took his glasses off, pocketing them carefully. "Aha, there you are, Harry, or, I suppose I ought to say—‘Padriac’." Dumbledore chuckled, laying a hand on Harry’s head as if blessing him. "There will be time later to examine yourself, but first, we must complete our transaction."

It was Remus’s turn. He stepped forward bravely, accepting a tumbler from Dumbledore that looked to be filled with a rather unpleasant potion. Snape stepped forward, wordlessly passing a small phial to Dumbledore that looked like it contained a clear potion, which, upon further inspection, turned out to be several black hairs, laid gently in a thick gel. Harry recognized it as the potion Snape had pocketed several nights ago during one of their lessons. He shuddered, and knew instantly whose hairs they were.

"How did you get those?" His voice sounded shaky. It was unnerving to think Snape could be so discreet that he wouldn’t even realise his own hairs being taken.

For his part, Snape looked completely unconcerned. Pursing his lips, he articulated a curt, "Another thing to add to our list, Potter. You really ought to begin cleaning your robes. Merlin knows what other vile things might be found on them."

Oblivious to the both of them, Dumbledore dropped the hairs into Lupin’s potion, turning it a deep scarlet, tinged with green. He chuckled, turning to Harry, and said lightly, "Hm, it does seem the Sorting Hat had a point when it wanted to put you in Slytherin, Harry. (Snape twitched.) But, you are a Gryffindor, truly," he added hastily, catching sight of the homicidal look on Harry’s face. "Well, I dare say it would taste a good lot better than Mrs. Crabbe and Goyle, don’t you think?"

Laughing nervously, Harry looked to Remus, gnawing heavily on both lips. He watched as his friend downed the potion, his face screwed up in pain as his hair slowly started to darken . . . .

"Take care you don’t start messing up you hair," he directed, concerned. Lupin nodded, smiling slightly and watching with interest his feet shrinking slightly. When he was finished, Harry could hardly believe what he saw. His face stared back at him, the same green eyes, the same lips, the same round nose. He frowned, resisting the urge to reach out and touch his other self, just to make sure he wasn’t looking into a mirror.

"Now that we are all changed, let’s set things in order, shall we?" Dumbledore sounded positively delighted. Clapping his hands, he ushered them into chairs around his desk, beaming. "I’ve brought you both spare robes, and—is something wrong with your eyes, Remus?—Ah, yes. Harry—your glasses, if you will."

Harry sprang up, digging his glasses out and handing them to Lupin, who grinned back at him. It was unnerving, being grinned at by his own face.

"Back to business," said Dumbledore briskly, standing and taking something from off the shelf behind him. Clearing his throat dramatically, he set the Sorting Hat atop his desk with a flourish, pushing it toward Harry with his uninjured hand. "Harry, you will need to be sorted again, and I will tell you now that the Hat will not place you back in Gryffindor. It would not be wise."

Gulping, he tentatively reached out toward the ragged bit of material, unsure of how to proceed. Where would he go from here, if Gryffindor was out of the question? He would never fit in as a Slytherin, that Harry was sure of, and he wasn’t nearly clever enough to be Ravenclaw, nor would Snape ever accept an apprentice from Hufflepuff.

He jumped as the hat was placed on his hat, waiting patiently for the voice.

"So," said a small voice in his ear, "Back again, Mr. Potter? Ah, but you’ve got a new name, have you? Padriac Domingart? A noble name, to be sure, but where to put you?"

Not in Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, Harry pleaded, hoping the urgency in his voice might speed up the process.

, Harry pleaded, hoping the urgency in his voice might speed up the process."Not in Gryffindor or Hufflepuff, you say? Well, that certainly is a change, isn’t it? You’re clever, oh, yes, and rather cunning, I dare say, when you let yourself be. You have potential, boy, to be great, and I’ve said it before, Slytherin will help you on your way to greatness. But you don’t want Slytherin, do you? Don’t think you’re good enough for Ravenclaw? You would do well in both, but I still say, Slytherincould make you more powerful than you ever . . . . Hmmm, you are a difficult one to place. Can’t make up your mind, can you? That’s what this is, you know. It’s not me that chooses so much as your own mind, and you’re not doing a very good job of it yourself."

Can we just get this over with?

"I am trying!" exclaimed the hat indigently. "It’s you that needs to help. There is no doubt you would do well in both houses, but I need your co-operation to place you!"

I’m trying! Harry was thoroughly frustrated by now. Wasn’t the supposed to decide where he went? It wasn’t his place to make that decision.

"Still undecided, I see. Oh, well, better go with my first thought and put you in—SLYTHERIN!"

Time stopped.

Harry sat, frozen, in his chair, not even bothering to take the hat off. Slytherin. He should have known. He’d be in Slytherin, with Malfoy. Sweet Merlin, he’d be sharing a dormitory with Malfoy. How would he sleep at night? How would he stand Pansy Parkinson? He already wanted to slap her as it was. But, he told himself, he should have expected this. The Sorting Hat had always wanted to put him in Slytherin. And why? He’d never know. Was he supposed to be a Dark Wizard? Had something just gone wrong along the way?

The Hat whispered something unintelligible. "You always had it in you, Potter," came the voice in his ear, and Harry wished it were real person, just so he could smack it. "You’ve got ambition, and you’re willing to go to any lengths to reach your goals. You are mistaken in thinking that being a Slytherin would be condemning you to evil. Slytherins are cunning, sometimes manipulative, and they will go to any means to get what they want, and you certainly fit the part."

I’m not a Slytherin, thought Harry furiously. I’m not like them. I’m not a Slytherin.

"You are now," chortled the voice. That was it. Off came the hat, and Dumbledore’s office came swimming back into view.

Smiling, Dumbledore retrieved the mangy old thing from where Harry had tossed it to the ground, replacing it on the shelf, where it looked rather smug and obnoxious. "We were getting worried about you under there, Harry, but, I see it all turned out rather nicely. A Slytherin! Wonderful, really. You’ll be the perfect part now. If I may say so myself, I was rather hoping the Hat would follow it’s nose (if it had one) and put you in the right place."

Harry gaped, his mouth flapping open like a fish. "You knew I’d be in . . . Slytherin?" he gasped, pulling away. A hand settled on his shoulder, and he nearly had a heart-attack upon finding his own self standing behind him, looking worried. Oh, right. It was just Lupin.

"There is more to discuss," announced Dumbledore, smiling vaguely. "Come, come. Remus, you will have to return to the Gryffindor Tower soon. I trust you know which bed is Harry’s. (Lupin nodded the affirmative.) Very good, and now to you, Severus, Harry—ehm—Padriac."

They both perked up, their interest peaked.

"Ha—Padriac—Severus will take you to his quarters for the night, as it would be terribly rude to introduce you to your new house-mates at this late hour. I trust you two will at least pretend to like one another, or at least tolerate one another, for now. (They both frowned, glaring at each other.) In the morning, I will make small business of Padriac joining the school, just a tiny announcement.

"Remus, you make sure to keep yourself in clear view. Professor Snape will once again be taking your position, at least for the week. If anyone does ask, all of you (except you, Harry) will make it seem as though Remus has had a particularly nasty time with his transformation, and went away for the coming full moon, as his potion just isn’t affecting him the same any longer. It might be nice if you told all of Harry’s friends about it, Remus. Oh, yes, I think that would be quite nice."

Harry, Lupin, and Snape sat in stunned silence, each enveloped in their own thoughts. It was late, and they were all tired. The Headmaster smiled slyly, abruptly rising to his feet and bidding them a pleasant night.

When was the last time Harry had a pleasant night? He couldn’t remember, but there must have been one, not too long ago. He thought he remembered himself smiling into his pillow, dreaming about Cho Chang. He stood, albeit unwillingly, and followed Snape out, his mind beginning to give in to the foggy, bleary power of fatigue. Luckily, the trip to the dungeons was relatively short, and he found himself in Snape’s quarters before he actually got the chance to think about where he was going.

So, this was where Snape lived, was it? It wasn’t quite what he’d thought it would be, but it was fitting. The first room they entered was what appeared to be the sitting room. It was small, made somewhat cramped by the vast amounts of bookshelves lining the walls. The sofa was dark blue and rather comfortable–looking. The fire in the stone grate was put out, but the rooms weren’t unbearably cold. There were three other doors, each resting in its own wall. That made four doors, total, and no windows.

"You can sleep on the sofa, Potter, and keep in mind that if you ruin it in any way, even just the slightest tear on a cushion, I will be using your small intestine in my next Brain-Bleeding Elixir." Snape’s dire warning floated out from across the room, but Harry was far too exhausted to pay him any mind.

He yawned, uttering a confused, "But I’m not . . . bleeding. Don’t need a Brum-Bumbling Felix . . . imer." He sighed, contented, and settled down on the sofa, pleased to find that it was just as soft and inviting as it looked.

Cold hands laid a black, cotton blanket atop him, and a deep, smooth voice said softly, "You astound me, Potter. What ever will we do with you?"

The last thing he remembered as he drifted off to sleep was murmuring, "Just don’t give the leprechauns my gold, nasty things. They want to keep it all for themselves, sir. They’re greedy. They want my cereal, as well . . . ."

Snape shook his head, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. He turned once more to look at the sleeping boy on his sofa. It was no longer James Potter’s face staring back at him, but someone slightly his own. The thought made him shudder. The thing on the sofa actually belonged to him. What was he going to do with a teenage boy? And what in Merlin’s name did cereal-stealing leprechauns have to do with it?