‘I do it,’ Harry said obstinately. Snape was attempting to feed him twigs again (or Weetabix as he had found it was called) but Harry felt like he wanted to do it himself. He grabbed at the spoon.

‘Alright Potter,’ Snape said, thrusting the little plastic spoon into his chubby fist and relinquishing the bowl of warm muggle cereal, ‘but don’t cry to me if you lose half of it in the attempt.’

Harry watched the batman thoughtfully as he pushed the spoon into his mouth, dribbling most of it out again almost immediately. He could see that his eyes looked sad and he wasn’t speaking quite the same as normal. He had been like that since Harry had woken up that morning. Harry had been very pleased with himself because he had found that he could talk much better, and definitely walk much better, but Snape hadn’t been very enthusiastic at all. He hadn’t even shouted when Harry had had a little scream and cry when his favourite snuggley jumper was too tight to fit over his head. He had simply watched till Harry was finished and then made it bigger with a dull wave of his wand. Now he was letting him feed himself. There was definitely something wrong and Harry didn’t like it; it was making him feel bad.

When he had finished pushing the soggy stuff into his mouth and all around the table of his high chair, Harry held his arms out to Snape. ‘Up,’ he said. For some reason he felt tears close to the surface; it was as though there was a weird upsetty monster somewhere in the room that was trying to get them both. He wondered if the batman would pull him into his arms like See-rus had done when he had fallen over chasing little flying balls in the attic the day before and cuddle him to him so that he felt safe and reassured.

Snape ignored Harry’s request to be picked up, removing the bib he’d secured round the toddler’s neck and wiping the sticky face with it. Harry wrinkled his nose and whimpered like he was being poisoned with doxy venom but he remained unusually quiet.

The ageing curl Snape had pressed against Harry’s thigh early that morning had told him that the boy was now two and a half. This was a definite breakthrough. Snape was beginning to see a pattern between Harry’s memories and his re-aging. His visit with Sirius the day before seemed to be the catalyst for this latest growth-spurt, and he had made careful notes about Potter’s sudden remembrance of the motorbike. There was an answer forming somewhere in the recesses of his brain that Snape could almost envision, but, annoyingly, as yet, it remained beyond his grasp.

He wondered if it was the events of the previous day which was preventing the materialisation of the solution in his mind. Since he was a child Snape had had an aptitude for problem solving, which was mainly due to the way in which his mind was disciplined in shutting down its more distracting areas (a skill that was equally invaluable to the Occlumency he had to practice to regularly in service for the Order) to concentrate on the problem in hand. The disappearance of the Pickle children, however, had thrown him. The twinkling-blue eyes of the mother and the beaming smile of little Sarah Pickles kept creeping into his mind. The muggle London Daily he had ordered by Owl that morning had affected him more than he would care to admit. It had carried a picture of a devastated Maura Pickles, her eyes red and swollen, clutching a frightened Sarah in her arms as though she was afraid she would lose her too. It had also carried a picture of the boys who had gone missing. It was a school photo of the three of them that had been taken a month previously. They had the same sapphire eyes as Sarah and her mother, though their hair was dark and wild. They grinned at the camera with the same looks of impish mischievousness, the freckles on their cheeks emphasizing their youth. The caption underneath told their names – Michael, Lee and Thomas - and their respective ages – eleven, ten and eight.

The fact that the muggle police were treating them as runaways exasperated Snape. In fact as he had read the article he had felt an, unfamiliar, defensive anger creep through him. The muggle police were taking an indifferent stance to the disappearances, stating that the Detective Inspector in charge of the area believed that they had probably got themselves into trouble (a local newsagents reported shoplifting that day) and run off to escape the consequences. He had also hinted that their upbringing was to blame, reiterating that runaways were common in their estate and hinting that they might have been suffering from neglect at home.

Snape’s anger at these unfair allegations was also mingled with an uncomfortable feeling of responsibility. He knew that as sure as dragons were dragons it was the work of the Death Eaters. Once again he cursed the day he had pledged his allegiance to the Dark Lord. He knew that this latest strike would be just one of many to come as their ranks swelled with wizards and witches who Voldemort had had his minions recruit – few of them willing – into his service. It smacked of initiation. Voldemort insisted that all new recruits were blooded at the first opportunity.

The mask Tonks had found at the scene had been shown to the ministry of magic at their earliest opportunity, but, as Dumbledore had predicted, it had done no good. The ministry refused to even consider that Voldemort might be alive and well and once again leading strikes against muggles, and even if they investigated the claim that the Dark Mark was conjured they would simply put it down to the fact that the odd loyal death eater might stage something every now and then. Finding the children wouldn’t be a great priority for them, particularly if, as Snape suspected, the Dark Lord’s plants in the ministry downplayed the whole incident.

Snape had talked long into the night with Dumbledore about the situation. The headmaster had agreed that the Order would take steps to ascertain the fate of the Pickle children (neither of them had voiced that the likelihood was that they had been murdered in cold blood by Voldemort’s followers) but Dumbledore had vexed Snape by forbidding him to question any of the Death Eaters about it himself at the next meeting. He had pointed out that Voldemort in excluding Snape in the first place would not expect him to know anything about the attacks. Snape had protested that Voldemort would expect him to have gained the information from the Order, but Dumbledore was adamant that he should not arouse suspicion. ‘You are too close to it', he had said gently. 'If you show interest then you will nurse the curiosity of Voldemort’s circle. Remember Severus that you have another charge to consider – Harry was with you at the park’.

In the end Snape had agreed to Dumbledore’s wishes, but they lay heavily upon him. Thoughts of the Pickles and the Death Eaters seemed to be caught up in a dark cloud that hung over his head, refusing to drift away and contaminating the very air around him with its heavy gloom. For the first time in a long time Snape felt like he was being harassed by his feelings and he didn’t like it.

‘Snape, Snape, Snape,’ a small voice chanted.

Snape looked down to see wide emerald eyes peering up at him. Potter’s arms were outstretched, his face set in a sad frown that seemed to illustrate Snape’s own feelings with uncanny precision. Snape had noticed that Potter had been as subdued as himself since he had woken that morning. He remembered vaguely something Molly Weasley had said about small children picking up on other’s emotions and wondered if that was it. Without thinking he drew the toddler up into his arms.

Harry’s frown lightened slightly as he was hoisted up. He threw his arms tightly around Snape’s neck before he could change his mind and cuddled his body into his huge black cloak, his body almost disappearing in the folds. He rubbed his cheek against Snape’s in an affectionate manner.

Snape pursed his lips as Harry hugged him and carried on, but he allowed him to sit in his arms for a few short minutes. Perhaps it was because his defences were already down, but he found himself appreciating the sentiment of it. His mind wandered vaguely to the image of Maura Pickles hugging her young daughter and suddenly he made a decision about something that had been circling his mind since the night before.

‘Play now, Snape,’ Harry said, pulling back from the embrace with the typically short attention span of a two-year-old.

Snape placed Harry on the floor near the toy box and watched him for a few minutes till he appeared settled with a sizeable pile of toys in front of him. He then sat at his desk and reaching into a hidden side-draw took out a small, blood red, serpent-skin case and removed the long, thin raven’s-feather quill and bottle of imperceptible ink. He then ripped a foot of parchment from his roll and began to write.

He composed an owl that was to set into a motion a series of devastating events, the consequences of which Snape could not possibly have known.

‘Hi Professor,’ she said, looking up. Snape raised his eyebrow. Next to them on the elaborate knotted-silk silver and green rug, one of Snape’s most regal and prized possessions, was a little red plastic contraption with a picture of a roaring lion on the front of it.

Harry was now stood up. He frowned at Hermione. ‘I do it,’ he said as she started to pull up his trousers. Hermione smiled.

‘Okay, Harry,’ she said, ‘you be a big boy.’

Harry struggled for a few seconds but he managed to pull his trousers up right over his belly button. ‘I do it!’ he said happily. He pointed at the little plastic seat that Hermione had shown him. ‘My potty,’ he said smiling at Snape. ‘Me big boy.’

‘Mrs Weasley sent it over for Harry,’ Hermione explained to a dubious-looking Snape. ‘It’s to toilet train Harry. I don’t know if you noticed but he’s started to lie down to be changed just after - well when he needs to be - and Mrs Weasley said that’s a sure sign that he’s ready for a potty – after all he is two now.

Ron marvelled at the way Hermione was completely unfazed at talking to Snape about potties and nappies and things. He could feel his own ears turning red and he noticed that Snape was looking down his nose. Harry, however, seemed thrilled. Hermione had explained to him how the lion would reward him with a roar if he went in the potty and that seemed to clinch it. Ron noted that now, however, the toddler had picked up the potty and put it on his head. Evidently it was going to take a bit of time before he was ‘potty trained’.

‘I see,’ Snape said in a bored voice, ‘very interesting Miss Granger.’

If Hermione was riled at Snape’s less-than-subtle derisiveness she didn’t show it. Instead she smiled at Harry.

‘I have Balbus hat,’ he said pointing to the potty on his head. He grabbed some of Hermione’s hair and pulled it to his chin, ‘Balbus beard,’ he said. Hermione squealed.

‘You’ve got a strong grip for such a little boy,’ she said.

‘Me big,’ Harry said. He let go of the hair and put his hands back on the potty, pulling it over his eyes. ‘Me vanished, look,’ he said.

Snape was getting irritated by the attention being given to such ridiculous things. ‘Take that off your head,’ he snapped.

‘No, no, no!’

Snape bent down and lifted the potty off Harry’s head, putting it on the table out of his reach.

‘Mine! My Potty,’ Harry screeched holding his hands up and stamping his foot. ‘Mine! Now!’ He stuck his bottom lip out as he looked at Snape. ‘Mine! Now!’ His little cheeks were red and he was looking with a surprising venom at the potions master.

‘Perhaps, Miss Granger,’ Snape said, ignoring Harry, ‘you would be as kind as to teach Potter that it’s not a toy.’

Hermione grit her teeth, biting back the retort at her lips. She thought Snape’s attitude was completely unnecessary. Still she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. She had noticed that he was even paler than usual and that he seemed not himself. Either there was something troubling the Professor or looking after Harry was taking its toll.

Harry was now looking very sulky and sullen. He was angry that his new toy had been taken from him. He stamped his feet a few more times and then went and took himself off to hide under the table and feel sorry for himself.

Snape rolled his eyes skywards, ‘I have a matter to attend to,’ he said suddenly. ‘Can you and Mr Weasley look after Potter till I return?’

‘Yes Professor,’ Hermione said. Ron nodded his assent but had a fierce look on his face. He was angry at Snape’s attitude towards Harry.

‘Has he been out today?’ Hermione continued. ‘Only I was thinking we could take him for a walk to see Hagrid. We won’t let anyone else see him. Most of the students have gone to Hogsmeade anyway.’

‘You may take him on the condition that he stays in his pushchair at all times in the grounds,’ Snape said. He knew that given the chance Potter would take full advantage of a free rein and he wasn’t about to let him.

‘Yes Sir,’ Hermione said.

‘Very well, I will be gone until this evening. If I am late you will take Mr Potter to Madame Pomfrey.’

‘Gone?’ Ron said suspiciously, ‘gone where?’

‘That, Weasley, is none of your business.’ With that Snape turned on his heel and left the room, his cloak billowing out behind him.

‘Come on Harry,’ Hermione said coaxingly with an apologetic look at Hagrid, ‘Hagrid’s our friend, he won’t hurt you.’

‘Imagine that,’ Hagrid was saying, absentmindedly picking beetles out of his matted beard, ‘Harry scared of me. I can’t imagine why either, kids normally love me.’

Ron looked at Hagrid dubiously but he didn’t voice his thoughts. ‘Maybe he was scared of Fang,’ he ventured lamely.

‘Fang? Who’d be scared of a big pussy cat like tha’?’ Hagrid said, apparently bewildered by the mere suggestion that a baby would be scared of the enormous boarhound.

‘Er, Harry?’

‘Nonsense! Fang’s always had a soft spot for young Harry, haven’t you boy?’

Fang opened one eye from where he was asleep by the fire and grunted lazily. He peered over to where Hermione was bent down near the table and then with not even a modicum of curiosity rolled over to face the wall. Winter’s nights were made for sleeping.

‘Harry,’ Hermione said, ‘please come out. We’ve got some – er …’

‘Rock cakes?’ Hagrid suggested.

‘Some – er – fun things for you to play with,’ she finished. Hagrid’s rock cakes were legendary teeth-breakers and Harry didn’t have a full set to begin with.

‘He’ll come out when he’s ready,’ Ron said shrugging, ‘stop fussing. It’s not like he’s going to set up camp is it?’

‘Humph!’ said Hermione, but she got to her feet.

‘So Professor Snape’s been looking after him ‘as he?’ Hagrid said. ‘Well Harry looks well enough so he must be doing a good job. I still can’t believe that he’s a toddler all over again. Growing up’s bad enough the first time. I should know I grew up much longer and taller than everyone else and it weren’t no picnic, let me tell you.’

Ron shot Hermione a bemused glance and she giggled.

‘We’re hoping that he’s going to find a cure soon,’ she said. ‘It must have been a very powerful curse to stump Professor Dumbledore.’

‘Well black magic’s not exactly Dumbledore’s area is it?’ Ron said, ‘it’s Snape’s. And as we all know he’ll be in no hurry to help Harry.’

‘Oh do be quiet,’ Hermione said impatiently, ‘I thought you’d stopped all that now!’

‘I want to know where he was running off to,’ Ron said. ‘He looked all weird, like he was up to something.’

‘Who was running off?’

‘Professor Snape. He said he had some meeting or something.’

‘I don’t know about no meeting,’ Hagrid said thoughtfully.

‘Perhaps it was for the Order?’ Hermione said.

‘Nah, there was one last night, you know with these disappearances like?’

‘What disappearances?’ Hermione said.

At that, however, Harry’s head popped out from under the table.

‘Ah, here’s the young fellow,’ Hagrid said happily, getting to his feet and holding his arms out. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be scared of old Hagrid.’

Harry hesitated, his hand involuntarily clenching round Cheep-Cheep’s neck causing him to squawk as he concentrated. It had been very boring under the table. Harry felt like he had been there for hours. No-one had been paying him any attention. He squinted up at the giant-monster-man. On closer inspection he didn’t actually look that scary. He had nice sparkly eyes and a smile that made Harry smile too. He crawled out and without further hesitation, and displaying the typically fickle temperament of a two-year old, ran into the outstretched arms at full speed. After all, if ’Mione liked him then he couldn’t be all bad.

‘Hello Harry,’ Hagrid said beaming as he scooped up the youngster. Harry reached out to Hagrid’s beard and pulled a little crawly thing from it, putting it in his mouth.

‘Harry!’ said Hermione alarmed.

‘Yuk,’ said Ron as Harry crunched down on the beetle, ‘that’s really disgusting, Harry!’

‘Nonsense,’ said Hagrid happily,’ they’re full of those whatchy-me-call-its beetles are - vitamins. They make your hair curl.’

After an enjoyable few hours playing hide and seek at Hagrid’s (and after a few more eating catastrophes on Harry’s part) they said their good-byes. Harry got quite upset at leaving but was pacified somewhat with the gift of a rock cake, finding that he could crunch down on it quite hard with his new and hurty teeth to take away the uncomfortable feeling. It was Ron’s turn to push Harry. Unfortunately he found the straps quite impossible and in the end had simply placed then over Harry.

‘Pretend they’re done up,’ he had whispered out of earshot of Hermione. He didn’t like fastening Harry in anyway, he thought it was like trapping him.

Harry had nodded, pretending to understand the apparently important, secret thing that the fire-boy was telling him. Of course he didn’t. When they stopped at the edge of the lake to admire the view he had been delighted to find that he could get to his feet and run through the long, wet grass, chasing birdies. Hermione, however, was less than impressed.

‘Ron,’ she said haughtily, ‘you heard what Snape said; we could take him out on condition that he stayed in his pushchair at all times.’

‘Give the kid a break,’ Ron said. ‘It’s not like he’s going to do a runner, is it? He’s only two.’

‘There must have been a reason,’ Hermione said.

In the few seconds that the two were distracted Harry decided that he would play hide and seek again. He ran behind a rock and pulled some leaves on top of him. Unfortunately it was also at that moment that a huge eagle-owl lost it’s balance temporarily and dropped its prey – a small, squealing rabbit – deep into the lake, making a loud splash that immediately turned Hermione’s and Ron’s attention towards it.

‘Where’s Harry?’ Hermione said at once.

‘I don’t know,’ Ron said, looking swiftly around, ‘he was here a second ago.’

‘Did you hear that splash?’ Hermione said. They both looked at each other with horror.

‘The lake!’

They ran to the water’s edge and peered over for any sign of Harry.

‘Do something Ron,’ Hermione said close to tears.

Ron did the only thing he could think of. He jumped, fully clothed into the murky water. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ll find him.’ He dunked his head under the freezing water and searched around. The lake was filled with small black fish which squealed in fright. The water was murky but Ron could just about see and there was no sign of Harry close to the surface. He was starting to panic now. He was fairly certain that Harry wouldn’t be able to swim. He came up for air and then, ignoring Hermione’s screams, went back under again. This time he used his wand to light his way.

‘I say,’ said a voice, 'can I help you?'

Ron spun round to be confronted by a pink seahorse which was dressed in a smart waistcoat and bow tie.

'You realise if you stay in here too long you’ll disturb the Merpeople. They’re quite barbaric you know, would cut your pretty little head off as soon as look at you.’

Ron fought back his surprise at the creature’s appearance and tried to speak. Unfortunately he had forgotten that he was under the water and all that came out were bubbles. The seahorse sighed and pointed his tail at Ron. ‘Try now,’ he said.

‘I’ve lost a little boy,’ Ron said, surprised that his voice came out quite ordinarily this time. ‘Have you seen him?’

‘No boys in here,’ the seahorse said. ‘A rabbit dropped in a minute or two ago. Most rude actually - he nearly fell on my head - but no boy.’ The Seahorse took some white gloves out of his pocket with his hooves and placed them on the spokes of his head, ‘Must dash, anyway. Hope you find him. My name’s Sir Dapper by the way. I’m the oracle of the lake. I don’t get many visitors so do drop in again if you can. Cheerio.’

With that Sir Dapper swam off, whistling to himself. It really had been a most interesting day. Still, as the oracle he had known all about it before it happened. He knew that the little boy the Weasley had spoken of was Harry Potter and he also knew that they would visit again.

When Ron emerged he found Hermione beside herself.

‘It’s okay, Hermione,’ said, climbing out of the lake and patting her with a wet hand, his robes dribbling everywhere, ‘he didn’t go in there, it was a rabbit that we heard.’

Hermione looked up hopefully. ‘How do you know?’

‘Sir Dapper told me.’

‘Who?’ Hermione looked at him like he was crazy.

‘The seahorse – er – never mind.’

Hermione was just about to ask Ron if some lake-water had passed into his brain when Harry appeared from behind a rock. ‘Oh Harry, thank goodness you're okay’ she said, tears of relief springing immediately to her eyes as stretched her arms out to him.

Harry smiled, looking pleased with himself. Hermione noticed that he had pulled down his trousers and half pulled off his nappy. There was a puddle on the floor and his clothes, shoes and socks included, were also soiled. ‘Me potty,’ he said.

‘At least I’m not the only one wet,’ Ron said, pulling some slimy weeds from his hair. Harry didn’t quite understand as the grown-ups started to laugh.

It was ten more silent minutes before the knock came; a sharp, assertive knock, which reflected the arrogance of the visitor beautifully and rattled the ageing door in its frame.

Snape rose purposefully, walking slowly through his decaying hall to turn a rusty key in the lock and creak open the door. The visitor strode in, his emerald green cloak pulled over his head like a hood to hide his face from any stray muggles he might be likely to meet. He nodded at Snape and then made his way into the cold and poorly-lit living room, waving his wand at the fire-place so that a crackling fire erupted immediately without the need of the damp coal.

‘If I must visit you here, Severus, I would at least like to be comfortable,’ he drawled, seating himself in Snape’s armchair and picking up the decanter of brandy that Snape had placed on his side-table in anticipation of his guest’s requirements. He held a glass up to Snape who nodded his head slightly. The guest poured a generous helping of the smooth brown liquid into the two square-cut glasses, his eyes taking in the peeling walls and the heavily worn carpets.

‘Really, Severus,’ he said, handing him the glass, ‘if you have to live amongst muggles you could have at least found a decent house to do it. This place looks the shack I keep my house-elf in.’

‘I was under the impression that that particular house-elf had been removed from your service,’ Snape said, his lips curling. ‘I hear in fact that he was freed, by Potter.’

Lucius felt his jaw clench. He had forgotten for a brief moment that Snape worked at Hogwarts. The loss of Dobby was still a bone of contention for him and he wished he had never spoken. ‘I trust you have a valid reason for bringing me here,’ he said, changing the subject and at the same time using his most contemptuous tone, ‘and a reason for contacting me. You know that the Dark Lord would not approve of his most trusted’ he placed special emphasis on the word ‘charge sending owls to Death Eaters without his express knowledge. You are here to talk to me about Death Eater business I take it - hence the use of the raven’s quill?’

Snape considered the man before him carefully before speaking. Lucius was a skilled legilemens and he took some time to build up the vital walls in his mind. The comments about his house he had expected – Lucius lived in a vast Wiltshire Manor. He did not voice to his guest that the dilapidated house had been the scene for his early upbringing.

‘Well?’ Lucius said, draining the brandy like it was water and refilling his glass. ‘I am rather busy as you can imagine.’

Snape worded his response carefully. He knew that no matter what he said his position was precarious. Lucius and he had never met on such a secretive basis since long before the Dark Lord’s fall, so he knew his old friend’s suspicion would already be roused. What he didn’t want to do now was exasperate it.

‘Children have gone missing,’ Snape said simply.

‘My, my, you are astute,’ Lucius said reclining in his chair and leisurely swirling the brandy in the glass. ‘Someone you knew was it?’ he continued, pointedly looking towards the window and out into the broken-down estate.

Snape knew that Lucius was simply making reference to the fact that his home was on a muggle estate but it rattled him; on the surface, though, his face remained a mask of indifference.

‘Well, what of it?’ Lucius said, disappointed to have not provoked a more vehement reaction. Still that was Snape all over – guarded and calm.

‘Perhaps, Lucius, you have not been as careful as you thought. The Order have in its possession a mask left behind by one of our circle.’

Snape felt satisfied as he saw Lucius’s hand clench slightly round his glass and a flicker of fear in his eyes. He knew then that he had him. He had been hoping that the loss of the mask wasn’t a deliberate act and for once he was not disappointed. Death Eaters had a special connection to the masks they were given by their master. A mask once moulded for one face would never fit another. It was a vital piece of evidence in the wrong hands as the accused could never escape the fact that the mask fit him and no-one else. This would particularly anger Voldemort if, as Snape suspected, it belonged to one of his most recent members in the ministry.

‘I understand, Lucius, that you have taken our master’s place, whilst it is still dangerous for him, as the initiator of our newest recruits.’

In fact Snape knew nothing of the sort. It had been an educated guess based on the fact that Lucius, of all the senior Death Eaters, took pleasure in the torture of muggles – a major part of the ‘blooding’ or initiation ceremony. If this was true and if Voldemort discovered the loss of the mask then Lucius was likely to bear the brunt of his anger.

Lucius watched Snape warily as he waited for his next move. To his annoyance he felt his heart beating quickly in his chest. He had discovered that Siegfried Balcow, a respected member of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, had lost his mask in a panic at the initiation ceremony the day before. Lucius had punished him severely and promised him a painful death if the Dark Lord was ever to get wind of it, knowing that it was his own responsibility to ensure that initiation ceremonies went to plan. Luckily Lucius, due to the vast swelling of the circle, had been granted power to distribute masks (Voldemort considering himself too busy for such menial tasks) and so had been able to replace it with minimum fuss. If Snape, however, as he was bound, reported such an indiscretion to Voldemort then Lucius was going to suffer for it.

‘What do you want?’ Lucius said at last, his pale blue eyes tinged with humiliation at the unfamiliar feeling of losing control of a situation.

Snape pretended to think about it for a moment. He inwardly took a deep breath before continuing. It was make or break. He took the offending mask out of his pocket and held it out to Lucius. They locked eyes as he spoke and remained so long after.

‘I want to know why you’re taking muggle children and I want to know why it’s been kept from me.’

Before Lucius answered, as he knew he had to, he smiled at Snape with a renewed respect. He had doubted his old friend but it seemed that, as himself, he was constantly looking out for an opportunity for skulduggery. Still, as he relayed some of what he knew to Snape, he couldn’t help but wonder how Snape’s disregard for their master’s instructions (to report everything known by the Order) might eventually work in his favour. Snape, for his part, expected nothing less.