And then, Severus smelled smoke.

Fire!?

Quirinus Quirrell lurched against him from behind, screeching about being on fire, of all things.

"You set Professor Quirrell on fire?!" Harry all but shrieked. They were in the common room, at their favorite table for studying quietly, but the room was so full of celebrating Slytherins, you could not have heard an erumpent trumpet its horn.

"Shush," Teddy said anyway, at the same time as Millicent shrugged, not looking at all apologetic.

"Could have been worse," she said. "I could have lit his head on fire. That smelly turban desperately deserves it, too." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Besides, it got him to stop cursing your broom, didn't it?"

"Yeah . . . But, are you sure it was him?"

Teddy rolled his eyes. "'Course it was. First of all, he's been trying to kill you all year, hasn't he? And also, he was staring right at you, without blinking. In order to carry out a sustained hex like that, you have to maintain eye contact. Uninterrupted. No blinking, no sneezing, no bending over to put out the flames on your robes."

Harry couldn't help it; he snickered. Though, when he'd been over a hundred feet in the air, his out of control broom had been anything but funny. Catching the Snitch, though, and winning the game . . . that had been the best feeling ever!

"I still can't believe they're not doing anything about him!" Millie growled.

"What do you mean?"

Teddy gave Millicent a sharp look before shrugging. "We saw Professor Snape talking with the Headmaster as everyone was leaving the stadium. The Professor looked furious, all pale except his lips which were white, he had them pressed so hard. You know The Look?"

Harry nodded dumbly, eyes wide. He'd seen that Look a couple of times. It usually heralded detention, and a raging dressing down.

"Yeah, well, I think he was angry with the Headmaster this time. I couldn't hear everything they said, but our Head of House was talking about Quirrell and how you'd almost died again and how the Headmaster better tighten up security, both on you and the you-know-what."

Huh? "What's a 'you-know-what'?"

"Damned if I know. Something they're trying to keep secret, anyway. And well-guarded." Teddy got a sly look and glanced around them to make sure none of their House mates had moved closer; they hadn't, the nearest ones were laughing their heads off a few strides away and couldn't have heard anything over the noise in the room. Even so, he lowered his voice, though not to a whisper. "Do you know why we're not allowed on the third floor corridor?"

"Peeves?" Harry guessed.

Teddy shook his head. "Cerberus."

"Serba-who?"

"Cerberus. A hell hound. Three heads, big teeth, nasty disposition."

Harry gaped at him. "A hell hound."

Teddy nodded.

"In the school."

Another nod.

"Why?"

"That's a good question. I think it's guarding something."

"Guarding what?"

Teddy wrinkled his nose a bit and sighed. "I don't know. But whatever it is -- and Hagrid, you know, the gamekeeper? He called it 'you-know-what' earlier today. Whatever it is, if the Headmaster wants it safe as much as he wants to protect you, then I imagine it's pretty important." He paused. "But the Professor was rather put out about Dumbledore being more interested in protecting the you-know-what than you."

Harry shook his head. It was too much. A three-headed hell hound was protecting something on the third floor, and the Headmaster was being less than helpful when it came to protecting Harry from the broom-cursing, murderous Quirrell.

"How d'you all this?" Harry asked, it being the only question he could wrap his mind around at the moment.

"He's very sneaky," Millicent said. "Sneakier than my big brother, and that's saying something." Teddy gave her a bland smile, and she continued, "And he eavesdrops."

"Give away all my secrets, why don't you."

"Right," Millie huffed. "As if you aren't gloating right now 'cause you know things no one else does."

"You know . . ." Harry said quietly, "I bet that's why Snape was limping."

"What?" asked Millie.

"When?" asked Teddy.

"Recently," Harry answered. "I really saw he was hurt on, um, Monday night," he didn't tell them about his trip to the owlery or the pictures Snape had shared; it was too personal. "But I think he'd been that way since Halloween."

"He didn't get hurt by the troll," Millicent pointed out. "No one did, not even Quirrell."

"No," Harry agreed. "But what if he had to check up on the cerberus?"

Millie rolled her eyes. "Why would anyone 'check up' on a three-headed hell hound?"

"Because they needed to make sure what whatever it's protecting is safe."

Harry nodded at Teddy. "And the troll . . ."

"Was just a distraction. So Quirrell could get his hands on whatever is being safeguarded, while the professors were all off chasing the troll."

"What are you two going on about?" Millicent crossed her arms over her chest. "Is this some sort of conspiracy theory?"

Harry was going to ask what she meant by that when a group of fourth and fifth years crowded the table, congratulating Harry on his first Quidditch win.

"Glad you didn't swallow, kid," said a boy who Harry didn't know, except that he was a fifth year. "Spittin's way better . . ." He smirked. "For Snitches, anyway."

"Shut up, Gaius," said a girl as she punched Gaius' arm. "Honestly. He's only eleven." The others Slytherins around them were laughing, though, and Harry smiled a little. The alternative was to appear stupid in front of older -- and much bigger -- students.

Gaius slung an arm around Harry's shoulders and squeezed the far one while he hugged Harry's body to his side. Harry managed -- barely -- not to twist away, but he did become very still. "Potter's cool with it, Darcy. He knows what's what. Doncha, kid?"

"Sure," Harry agreed; pretending he understood was almost always better than admitting ignorance.

"So tell me, Potter, you gonna win us the cup?" Gaius asked, his lips twisted in an almost leer, making Harry want to get away from him even more.

"Yeah, 'course," Harry said. "If I can."

"Of course he will," Millicent agreed. "Did you see him fly? Even when his broom was all hexed up." She grinned at Harry, eyes shining. "Amazing."

Harry ducked his head at her compliment, and used the motion to duck out from under Gaius' arm. From the smirk and wink Gaius gave him, Harry knew his method of getting away had not been subtle. Not particularly caring, Harry just hunched his shoulders and looked away.

The group chatted loudly, laughing and even chanting out Slytherin Team Quidditch slogans, for another quarter hour before Millicent rose from her seat at the table. "Almost time for dinner, guys. Harry, I gotta show you something first, okay?"

As Harry got up to follow, Gaius made some other comment, under his breath so Harry could not hear, but the fifth year's friends collapsed into laughter.

Frowning and feeling his face warming, though he could not have said why, Harry trailed after Millicent and Teddy to the first year boys' dorm. The snickering continued on behind him, until he had the door shut to close out their voices.

"What's up, Millie?" he asked, noting that Teddy was scowling, too.

"Watch out for him, Harry," she said.

"Why? What's . . . it he dangerous?"

"He could be," said Teddy, who then bit his lip briefly before letting it go. "His father was a supporter of You Know Who."

"So . . . you think he's angry about that?" Harry didn't think Gaius looked angry, more . . . like a predator. The look in his eyes had made Harry very uncomfortable, and the spot when Gaius had squeezed his arm felt like he had been burned. He didn't like it when people touched him. All his life -- or all of it he could remember, anyway -- being touched by someone usually meant pain. Dudley and his gang only touched him with fists and kicks, and his aunt and uncle never touched him at all if they could help it. If they did, it was usually just to throw him into his cupboard or push him out the door. No one had ever hugged him or even just shaken his hand until he met Hagrid. Thus he felt well within his rights to be suspicious of anyone who was physically close to him. And besides, Gaius had just been creepy.

Teddy shook his head. "I don't think so. But he might be looking for some means of revenge. I knew him, sort of, while we were growing up. He's friends with one of my cousins. He doesn't get mad, he gets even."

Great, Harry thought as he scratched absently as his scar. Some crazy psychopath had tried to kill him when he was a baby, got himself destroyed instead, and Harry was made out to be the bad guy by the psycho's followers. He just didn't get it.

"Hey, it's all right," Millie said and gave Harry a reassuring smile. He noted that she respected his space and almost never crowded him; certainly never touched him. He liked it much better that way. "We'll keep a close eye out for ya, Harry."

With a wry smile for his friend, Harry sighed. "Looks like I've got all kinds of body guards, eh? Wish I could just figure out some way to protect myself so I didn't have to look over my shoulder all the time."

"Yeah," Teddy said, as a pensive look stole across his face. "That would be helpful."

Harry wondered what new project -- sneaky or not -- Teddy was coming up with now, and if it would involve anyone getting hexed.

---

The next day, Harry was in Snape's office again. After Harry admitted that his friends -- though he was careful not to name names -- had been the ones to stop Quirrell's broom cursing with a bit of well-placed fire, Snape was gracious enough to say they would not be punished for saving Harry's life, and in the same breath, he told Harry that he had been the one trying to counter the curse.

"What's the Headmaster going to do about Quirrell, sir?"

Snape swore -- softly -- then stomped around his office for the next ten minutes, in a very un-Snapelike manner, while glaring balefully at various potion ingredients.

Head down, and wondering why Snape was so upset, Harry remained still until Snape returned to his desk, whereupon he did not ask again about the Headmaster, but said, "Can I see more pictures, sir?"

Peering at him through narrowed eyes and sneering, Snape nodded. "But let us make an arrangement, Harry. One that will be mutually beneficial."

Immediately suspicious, Harry cleared his expression so as to give nothing away. That was the best way to get the best deal. Millie often said he would be a great poker player. "What kind of arrangement, Professor?"

Snape's thin lips turned up slightly at one corner. "You want to see pictures of your mother." He paused, and Harry realized he wanted confirmation.

"Yes, sir." Desperately, like an itch he could not scratch, like an empty ache in his chest, a hole the size of his heart.

Snape nodded. "And I want answers -- honest, complete answers -- to my questions. I suggest we agree on some sort of trade off. Therefore, I will show you one picture for every twelve questions you answer."

Harry had almost been expecting that. One thing he had been learning from his Slytherin House mates was that very little in life came without a price attached, and he was willing to make some kind of trade, in truth. But a dozen questions for one picture! Completely mad. Keeping his face blank, Harry shook his head. "How about one for one? That seems fair."

Snape lifted an eyebrow, but Harry was almost certain he could detect a gleam of amusement in the dark depths of the professor's eyes. "Alas for you, Mr. Potter, life is not fair." Snape laid his hands on the desk in front of him and leaned back in his chair. "Ten questions per photo."

"Two."

"Be reasonable, Mr. Potter. This is information I could simply delve in your mind to discover, or order you to give me."

But he wouldn't, Harry knew, and then he wondered why. Maybe Snape didn't want to force Harry to spill his secrets. He worried his lip a bit, trying to figure Snape out.

"Six questions per photo," Snape said into the silence, "plus at least one hour, given within a week's time, assisting me in the preparation of ingredients for my lessons."

Harry, abandoning his blank look, opened his mouth in shock, then closed it with a snap. It was almost like a compliment, that Snape would want him to prepare ingredients with him. As though he thought Harry would do a good job at it or something. Almost smiling, he countered with, "Two questions plus that hour."

"Four plus an hour." The professor's lip twitched; he was definitely amused now.

Harry considered the offer for a moment, but he wanted to avoid the questions entirely if possible. "How about two hours of potions work and no questions?" he offered hopefully.

"I will not agree to any arrangement that lacks you answering questions as part of the exchange." Snape paused as Harry drew a breath and acknowledged fact with a tiny nod. Then he suggested, "Two questions and two hours."

Harry figured that was as good a deal as he was likely to get. He bargained the professor from twelve questions down to two, after all, and felt almost jubilant as a result. "All right. Two questions and two hours per photo."

Snape inclined his head. "Very well. Wait here." He went through a concealed door at the back of his office and returned a few minutes later with that same paper packet he'd had last Monday.

Something quivered low in Harry's gut. Pure anticipation and excitement. He was going to see his Mum again. He didn't care if Snape was in every picture, or they were taken at Hogwarts or at his grandparents' home, in Diagon Alley or on the moon. He just wanted to see his Mum. As Snape removed the photos from the packet, Harry drew a shuddering breath.

He had been able to think of little else -- except for Quidditch -- for the last week. The pictures he had seen on Monday of his Mum had filled a tiny corner of the gaping hole he had in his chest, the emptiness he harbored where memories of his parents should be. He wished, more than anything else in his life, ever, that he had been given a chance to know his Mum and Dad. He wished there had been no Voldemort, no Killing Curse, and no need for the Dursleys in his life.

As all his wishes bubbled to the surface of his mind, Harry drew another breath, this one to steady himself. He could not let the professor see his emotions so out of control, and he had to turn his face away until he felt calmer.

Snape laid the first picture flat on his desk. "Come around this side, Harry," he said, and his voice held that same calm and oddly . . . caring tone he had used the night he followed Harry to the owlery. And he had used Harry's given name, which he did not do very often, and never in front of other people. In fact, usually only when they were discussing difficult things, or when Snape was apologizing for something.

Harry moved his chair around to Snape's side of the desk and his gaze went immediately to the photo. Snape slid it closer to Harry, so he could get a better look. His Mum, in her Hogwarts uniform with the addition of a dark blue jumper and matching knit hat, stood in one of the larger courtyards of the school. She leaned against one of the columns covered with winter ivy and cradled a book in her arms, her head bent over the pages. A light dusting of snow skirled around her feet in miniature cyclones. As Harry drank in ever detail, she looked up from her book and grinned at him. Her green eyes sparkled. Couching her book against her chest with one arm, she waved at him, then tucked a long strand of her auburn hair behind her ear.

Harry's chest tightened; he could barely breathe.

She appeared older than in the other pictures Snape had shown him; he would guess she was in third or fourth year in this one.

"Did you take the picture?" he asked Snape after a few minutes of staring hungrily at the image.

Snape nodded. "This was a bit before winter break in our third year." The professor cleared his throat, and Harry wondered if Snape was as choked by emotions as Harry was. "She wanted more pictures to show her parents."

"Was she . . . did she go home for the hols then?"

"Yes, of course."

Harry nodded, his face growing warm with shame. Of course. His Mum's parents had probably still loved their daughter, even though they didn't have magic and she did. Not like Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, who would be just as glad if he never came back. No wonder their daughter got to go home for holidays, though: they wanted her.

He watched his Mum read a bit more from whatever book she held, then glance up to grin cheekily at him a few more times. Once, she even spun in place, her robe billowing out like the bottom of a bell as she laughed and laughed. She looked so happy.

Wanting -- somehow -- to have her recognize him, acknowledge him as her son, Harry reached toward the picture as she finished spinning. He wanted to talk to her like he could with the Bloody Baron, or with the portraits of people long dead and gone that covered the halls of Hogwarts. After all, she was smiling at him.

"Mum," he called and put his face close to the surface of the picture. "Mum, it's Harry, your son. Mum! Can you hear me?"

She didn't react at all, and when Snape touched Harry's forearm with his pale, slender fingers, Harry jerked his hand back from the photograph. "She can't hear you, Harry," Snape said quietly. "She's not really there."

Harry swallowed down his disappointment. "I . . . I know." He turned his face away. "Sorry."

"It's all right." Snape paused. "It's a common mistake for people new to the Wizarding world."

Harry gave a jerky nod, but could not bring himself to look at the picture again.

"Would you like me to put this away now? Or do you want to see another one?"

Harry nibbled his lip, considering. He wanted to see them all, but if he did it right now, he feared the pain would overwhelm him. Seeing just one was already making his eyes burn and his chest ache, and he didn't think he could take more tonight. "I . . . I'm done. I think."

Snape nodded again and put the small stack of pictures back into the packet. "I will ask the two questions tonight. Your two hours of assisting me you will have to schedule, but they should be completed prior to next Sunday.

Glad to hear Snape's back-to-business voice, even though it meant he now had to answer questions, Harry said, "Yes, sir." He clasped his hands together tightly on top of the desk as if he were bracing himself. "I'm ready."

"You know, Potter," Snape said, sounding almost irritated, "I'm not going to hurt you with my questions."

"Beg your pardon, sir," Harry replied, clenching his hands tighter, "but you don't know that." He glanced up at the professor's face and met his dark, fathomless eyes head on.

They stared at each other for several long moments before Snape gave a miniscule nod. "My apologies, Harry. You are correct. How about, I will do my best not to hurt you." He paused. "And you will tell me if I have failed. Agreed?"

"All right," Harry agreed, though he didn't know if he could do that, in truth. "I'll try, sir."

"Thank you. That's all I can ask." He smirked. "Except for two other things." Harry gazed at him expectantly, until Snape finally said, "First question: Why don't you want to go home for winter hols?"

Harry had not said that he didn't, but he figured Snape was drawing on what Harry had asked before, about his Mum. But it wasn't fair; Snape was skipping a much easier question to answer. Harry considered making him ask that question first -- about whether he wanted to go to the Dursleys for the break or not -- but decided not to, less interested in having an argument than in just finishing this and going back to the dorms.

"There's no reason for me to," he answered after a moment.

"Explain." Harry narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to ask if that was the second question, when the Professor cut him off. "I am not satisfied with that answer, as I do not find it complete. So explain why there is no reason for you to return home for the holidays."

Scowling now, Harry mumbled, "Okay. Fine." Hitching up one shoulder, he said, "I'm not allowed to be part of their holidays, except cooking for them and cleaning up afterwards, so I'd rather stay here than be their servant."

"What about on Solstice itself . . . or, I suppose as Muggles they celebrate Christmas."

"Yeah, they do." Harry shrugged, knowing next to nothing about Solstice. "But yeah, on Christmas, sometimes they let me out of my cu . . . er, my room, so I can finish cooking dinner for them. Sometimes they don't, though, so I get to spend all day in there, alone, listening to them having fun and all. I'd rather be at Hogwarts, where I'm pretty sure I'll at least get dinner."

"That would be a good assumption." Snape smiled a little as he said it, and somehow, the touch of humor made Harry feel a bit more comfortable to be talking to him. "What about presents? And yes, this is still part of question one."

"Presents?" Harry frowned. "What about them?"

"Won't you miss out on getting gifts from your family?"

Harry actually laughed, terribly amused by Snape's inadvertent joke. "No," he said, still chuckling a minute later. "They never give me anything. First present I ever got was on my birthday this year. Hagrid gave me a cake when he brought my Hogwarts letter, and then he gave me Hedwig when we got my school supplies in Diagon Alley." He chanced a look at Snape's face. The man did not show surprise or pity or any of that, and Harry was glad.

"Oh, wait!" Harry added a moment later, continuing to hold the man's gaze. "I did get a present for Christmas once." The day he started primary school, he had been promised a gift if he was very, very good until Christmas. He went for months not questioning any orders, and never talking back, hardly talking at all, in fact. He worked for hours every night after school doing chores to make up for the fact that he wasn't home during the day, and that was only after he did Dudley's homework. He was allowed to do his own homework after he finished the chores. During those four months, he never dared to ask for food or challenge any mean thing Dudley said about him or his dead parents, and he never complained when Dudley and his gang chased him or beat him up. He had been so good, and so looking forward to getting his present he'd been practically frantic with anticipation on Christmas morning.

Shaking his head, Harry shook off those old memories. His voice was quiet and lacking any emotion when he said, "I got a clothes hanger."

He never trusted anything they promised him, after that.