Then he was gone. Why couldn’t he take me along? ‘Probably tired of you already.’ I’d have to try harder to remain quiet, invisible. I didn’t need anything else from him. Couldn’t he see he could let me alone with the chores and I’d be good? And all the money he was spending. The food, and the clothes – didn’t need them either. Safer not to need. Disappointment hurt.

“Come along, Harry,” the lady called Minerva beckoned. I rushed to keep up with her as we made several turns throughout the labyrinth of the first floor.

She led me into a room that looked a cross between a parlor and an office. An intricately carved, cherry-wood desk graced one corner of the room, littered with many thick papers, all in various states of address. Crests were emblazoned on each one, and several were folded as if they awaited sending.

There were floor to ceiling bookshelves to my right, with a grand, grimy fireplace on the left. A chaise lounge and arm chairs made the fireplace and furniture seem a cozy sitting room. A low shelf by the fire held many dusty trinkets that begged cleaning.

In front of the chaise sat a squatty table of the same dark, brickish wood as the overwhelming desk. It held more papers, little black bottles, and a pot full of feathers. A feather duster? Aunt Petunia had one of those; it burnt up right in my hand as she reached out to slap me. ‘That must have been accidental magic!’ After that I used rags to dust. It took much longer that way.

The Lady Minerva gestured to that low table and said, “I trust you can keep yourself busy for a bit, Harry? I’ll just freshen up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” It took a moment to get all the little feathers up in my hand. It seemed silly to me they weren’t tied together like Aunt’s had been. I was just beginning to move those dirty little trinkets when she came back out, smelling of powder and old-lady perfume.

“And just what do you think you are doing, Harry James Potter?” she’d demanded. If it weren’t for her peculiar accent, she could have been Aunt Petunia’s mother or something.

I’d startled and lost grip on the feathers when she shouted. She was obviously very angry with me. I frantically apologized as I bent to pick up the scattered plumage.

“I’m sorry is not an answer, child!” My Snape had said that too. ‘He didn’t beat me after. He didn’t beat me after!’

I stood, replacing the bent and dirty feathers in the pot.

“I was c-cleaning, ma’am.” I knew better than to look at her.

“That is obviously a falsehood, boy. You couldn’t even look me in the eye as you said it!”

I started to protest. Don’t know what made me do it – you never, ever answer back! ‘Bad, bad, Harry! You’re really in for it now!’

“Nonsense!” she regally rebuked at my desperate objection, advancing on me.

‘Where’s my Snape?’

…………………………………………

They were terrified when I cast Bombarda on the back door to Number 4. They were petrified, in both senses of the term, in a split second.

I scanned the obese tub of a son’s mind for memories of Harry and found quite a few pertaining to bullying. This eased my recently overactive conscience; the boy would be affected by his parents’ upcoming misfortune.

The grotesque child was levitated to his room, soon to be obliviated.

I turned to Lily’s hideous sister. How could she treat her own blood in such a manner? She was the one who should have protected and nurtured the little one; instead it seemed as if she’d been asleep through the entire proceeding – beatings and such.

As Harry had nightmares, so would she. I forced a Pervigilo Insomnium potion down her flimsy, proud throat, which was something like having a dementor invade one’s dreams.

Only more frightening.

Perfect.

Yet her husband’s punishment would compound her waking life.

For ‘Uncle Vernon,’ something more all-encompassing was in order. Legilimency was my chosen weapon for this task. I tore into his mind, shredding each cheerful memory; attracted by the incantation of Recordatio Ereptor. My will to take the good allowed me to siphon off the happy and the bright.

I manipulated what was left into remembrances ever more frightening and abusive. Vernon was left as I saw Harry during his flashback, that night at the pub; terrified of everyone and everything, always expecting the worst. Dursley would never be the same.

The whole lot of them was obliviated after the adults were administered spell reversal potion. Upon being taken into magical custody all what I’d done would never have happened. Our lovely ministry officials could accuse me of nought.

When Harry was ready to testify, their real imprisonment could begin.

Until then, we were already free.

………………………………

He was back. I thanked the stars, the moon, everything cosmic I could recall in my current state. should I be relieved? What if he left me here? What if he realized I was too much trouble and gave me to Dumblesdore? Surely Mister Professor Snape would punish me, but how?

I didn’t dare turn my head from the corner she’d ordered me into, but I could hear the crisp swish of his cloak as he rushed into the room.

“What in Merlin’s name happened, Minerva?” he ranted. He sounded quite livid and fiery!

She took her time answering. Setting the half-moon glasses gently on the desk, she explained how I’d bothered her priceless artifacts, destroyed thirty quills, and lied about it. ‘What are quills?’

Mister Professor Snape’s breathing was like a chugging steam train.

“You say he lied. What was the boy’s explanation?”

‘Boy!’ Oh no, oh no, oh no!

“He said he was cleaning! Can you imagine, Severus?” she squealed.

Immediately, my guardian bellowed, “Of course he was cleaning! That’s what the b—damn! child does – clean, you ignorant, ancient hag!”

Wait – he was calling her names. Could it be he was angry with her and not I? He believed me?

“Come out of that blasted corner, Harry. We’re going home.”

As I obeyed I saw her sweeping toward us.

“How dare you, Snape! Insult me, then usurp my authority! I thought you’d be grateful I disciplined the little scamp!”

My godfather’s eyes caught fire.

…………………………………

If she’d done what I thought . . .

My first year at Hogwarts the cane was still used. Being the head of my rival house, Minerva had taken ample opportunities to dole out ‘discipline’ to insolent students, primarily those in Slytherin.

“Did. You. Cane. Him?” It came out as a whisper between evilly clenched teeth.

The factious feline haughtily waved a crinkled paw, turning her back on me.

“Calm yourself before you have an aneurism, Severus. The smacking had no effect, he failed even to flinch. I’m ancient, as you so pleasantly pointed out. I’ve lost my touch. With the cane, twelve and not even a whimper.”

Twelve! I knew it hurt Harry; I imagined he was simply used to remaining silent lest the violence escalate. ‘Just as I was.’ I knew from experience Minerva’s strokes became harder when one stayed quiet; she thought she was neglecting to make the proper impression.

“McGonagall, you bleeding prig! You shall never be left alone with Harry again.”

I led little one out of old McGonagall’s office, utilizing every scrap of self-restraint I possessed to keep from hexing her into oblivion. That could wait.

The poor child was shaking fiercely; I wanted to get him home. But I thought apparating might be too jarring at this point. We took a detour to the dungeons.

……………………………

We went down into the depths of the castle again. He was so incredibly angry I could nearly feel the heat radiating off him. Once we were locked in his chambers he strode to the fireplace and leant there, head down, as if he needed such a brace. After a few deep breaths, he spun round and looked at me. I shouldn’t have done it, but I instinctively backed away, ending up swathed in a great tapestry. A hiss escaped my lips as my backside hit the stony surface beyond the cloth.

Steeling myself against the urge to bolt, I stayed still as he came toward me. But then I jerked involuntarily and panic enveloped me, dowsing me with grimy waters of too-close remembrances.

Pulling myself to the ground, crouching and covering tightly with the foreign cloak, I’d polaroids of terror, screaming, beatings trampling through my inside mind. My throat went dry as I tried to apologize.

“’M sorry, sir. Sorry, sir,” was all that escaped before my chest clamped up on me and present surroundings melted away. The cupboard. I was in the cupboard! No, no, no!

‘Arrogant, destructive little freak! You should’ve died with your worthless parents!’

“I’ll be good, Uncle Vernon! I promise I’ll be good. Please, please, sir. Please!”

But with Uncle Vernon, it never stopped.

Never.

………………………………

He didn’t respond to his name being called.

He wasn’t hearing, wasn’t seeing.

I knew he’d feel absolute terror if I touched him. He’d murmured the disgustingly obese muggle’s name as well.

I cast warming charms round us as the dungeons were, naturally, quite cold. Keeping the fire roaring, I listened to his quick breaths and hushed whimpers. As soon as his hunched shoulders began to relax, I took up talking to him again, reassuring he was safe and would not be hurt here.

It took over three hours, but he finally calmed enough to follow the directions I gave about deep breaths and feet pressed to the floor. Still, he shied from touch. I gave him a pain potion to drink rather than broach the subject of topical application of cream. After a calming draught was given as well, he fell to sleep, curled tightly on the settee in front of the fire.

I truly wanted a drink. I needed to calm myself. But I would not turn to that again, nor take a draught; he might so desperately need me upon waking. I paced for an eternity, itching for something. I picked up a habit I’d broken myself of years before.

Sitting in a regal armchair by the fire, I watched over the tiny slumbering child, conjured cigarette in hand. My lips took on the shape of curling smoke when imagining Number 4 Privet Drive. I banished the odour of tobacco as the fireplace dimmed.

Finally, I dozed, but gurgling screams drowned my flitting dreams.