Severus glanced up wearily when Mercup appeared with a small plate of cheese toast.  He rewarded the house elf with a small, rare smile.  “Ah, Mercup - you always know what I want, even before I know it myself.”

 “I assumed Master would be hungry, after his long day of travel.” The tiny elf beamed at him. “Would Master care for a drink?  I has his favorite aged fire whiskey all ready!”

Severus frowned thoughtfully as he nibbled his toast.  “That is kind of you – but I think not.  As tired as I am,  alcohol might dull my responses: until the boy is settled in properly, it would not be wise.”  He studied the elf seriously.  “Is everything in order? Were there any problems with my arrangements?”

“None, Master,” Mercup bowed proudly.  “Everything is as you ordered.  The house will meet all your needs as you has instructed. I has watched closely for anything suspicious, but all is as should be. I delivered your letter to Mr. Keegan and he knows you has arrived. You will not be disturbed.”

“And Mr. Keegan’s excessively large family?”  Severus sneered distastefully.

“All is believing your story, Master.  . .they is expecting to see English school teacher and his young ward, who rent the old cottage for holiday, sir.”

“Very good.”

“I thinks some of Mr. Keegan’s young ones is being close to Little Master’s age,” Mercup eyed him hopefully.

Severus snorted, washing down his toast with a sip of hot tea. “Hmmm. . .that’s a good thing, I suppose.  The boy will need playmates.  He may meet some wizard children at Glascarrig,  but close to home, I expect Muggle children would be safer.”

“Yes, Master.”

“What about the post?”

“A post box has been set up in the Wizards’ village in the name of Westlake, as you requested, Master.  Mercup will deliver and retrieve your mail as needed. . .nothing dangerous or traceable can be getting past the wards here.”

“Excellent.  You have done very well, Mercup.”

The elf beamed at the words of praise. “I has hoped Master would be satisfied.”

“I am. . .and I’m pleased you remembered my alias, however, you must be careful, Mercup.  You mustn’t call me Master.  You really must address me as Mister Westlake!”

The elf’s large ears drooped and his careworn features twisted into a sad grimace.  “I is sorry, Master!  I tries to remember but it is hard.”

“I understand,” Severus replied with unusual kindness.  “But it is crucial to our safety.  You may address my ward as ‘Master Cary’  or ‘Little Master’ – that is an acceptable title for any lad of his status that you might serve.  But you must not slip and call me Master – not even in front of Cary.  I doubt he would understand the connotation at this point, but I will be teaching him about Wizard society this summer, and he may eventually realize what the title implies.  It’s important that no one – not even the boy - know that you are bound to me.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mas…” the elf hesitated and quickly corrected himself.  “Yes, M- Mister Westlake! “ he stammered over the title, making a distressed face. “It is very difficult, sir! I is sorry to be so much trouble, sir!  It is hard for Mercup to use such a disrespectful title, sir!”

Severus sighed.  “Very well. Perhaps something else instead. . .” He thought back over his conversation with the boy.  “Would ‘Professor’ be easier for you?”

Mercup smiled tremulously.  “Oh, sir!  That is much better, Professor sir! It is a noble profession and a title of great merit and reverence.  I is happy to be calling Master,  Professor Westlake!  Thank you, sir!”

“It is an acceptable compromise,” Severus agreed thoughtfully.  “It’s appropriate for Westlake’s position, and a familiar title to the child.  No one will attach any significance to it, I think.”

“Yes, Professor!  Is much more easy to obey my Master in this! I am being most careful from now on, I promise!” Mercup nodded frantically, his normal pleased grin back in place.

“Thank you, Mercup.  I am grateful for your efforts.”  Severus rose and stretched his aching back.  “I’ll retire now, Mercup.  I have told Cary to call upon you if he needs anything, but I expect he will sleep through the night without incident.  The child was quite exhausted.”

“Yes, Professor!  I keep careful watch over him,” Mercup promised solemnly.

“No, Mercup – that isn’t necessary,” Severus scolded sternly.  “I will place a monitoring charm on him to alert me if he awakens. Do not concern yourself.  I know you have labored hard to prepare for our arrival.  I insist you get some rest now. . .” he eyed the tiny elf wryly. “You will need all of your ample energy in future.  Trust me - I know the boy. I’m afraid that caring for a mischievous, inquisitive lad like this one, will require considerably more effort than tending the needs of a stodgy old Professor – even one as cantankerous as I.”

“Oh, M-Professor!”  the elf looked scandalized.  “You mustn’t say such things! You is a very good master!”

Severus chuckled darkly. “It is kind of you to say so, Mercup. . .but we both know I am frequently demanding and bad-tempered.”

Mercup followed him into the foyer to the foot of the steep stairs. “I would never think so, Professor!” he insisted stubbornly.

“You disagree?” Severus eyed him with a mild smirk.

“Indeed, sir!’ Mercup declared, gazing up at him adoringly. “Professor is merely. . .particular, sir,” he sniffed smugly.  “He likes thing to be a certain way and Mercup understands what his Master wants and needs. Professor is never unfair or unreasonable.  Mercup could not wish for a better master, sir!”

Severus couldn’t help but give the tiny elf a fond, rueful smile.  “Then it is fortunate for me that you have such low expectations,  my dear Mercup.”  He forestalled any more protest from the elf with a weary wave.  “I’m going to bed now.  Please do the same.” He began the steep climb up the narrow stairs.

“Sleep well, Professor!” the elf called softly.

“And you, Mercup.”

The elf popped out as Severus reached the cramped little upstairs hall.  He paused a moment and opened Harry’s door, glancing in on the boy.  In the pale moonlight splashed across the bed, all he could see was a huddled bump under the quilt, and the bottom of one bare foot sticking out from under the covers.  With an annoyed sigh, he crossed to the bed and stared down at the still form.  It took a moment to make sense of the peculiar, baffling lump. He realized with some astonishment that the boy had fallen asleep on his face, his knees tucked up under him and his head under the pillow, buried in his arms.  The peak of the blanketed bulge proved to be the child’s arse, thrust comically up into the air.

He studied Harry worriedly, weighing his options. He couldn’t fathom how such a pose could be even remotely comfortable, and he longed to straighten the child’s frame out properly.  But he feared the attempt would wake the boy – something he definitely did not want to risk.   

A shiver of uncertainty gripped his heart.

He forced himself to ignore his abruptly rising self-doubts.  Clearly the boy was perfectly all right. If he were truly suffocating, he would shift himself.  With a shrug of defeat, he left the sleeping child as he was and settled for merely covering the exposed foot, and adding a warming charm to the quilt.

He waved his wand at the door, murmuring a spell that would alert him if the boy left his room. He started to leave, then turned back and scowled thoughtfully at the child. Another simple charm settled silently over the boy, designed to monitor any signs of fear or distress. Severus felt a bit ridiculous casting such a superfluous charm, but he knew Harry was prone to nightmares, and he didn’t want the boy to wake up alone and afraid in a strange place.  If he panicked he might do something foolish, like tumble down the stairs and break his fool neck.  Feeling his caution was reasonably justified, Severus dismissed the embarrassing moment of concern.

But despite his renewed confidence, he left Harry’s door open when he left,  and even left his own door slightly ajar as he retired to his bedroom.  The cool silky sheets of the large bed called to him, and he retrieved a nightshirt from the wardrobe and changed quickly.  Severus sank into the comforting softness of his featherbed with a relieved sigh of contentment.  He was asleep before he could even begin his customary nightly meditation.

----- ----- ----- ----- -----

Harry stirred restlessly, floating up from the depths of sleep with a vague feeling of discomfort.  His right foot was cold.  This was his first conscious awareness.  He shifted instinctively, drawing the chilly appendage under the covers. The rest of his body was remarkably warm and comfortable.  This was his second awareness.  His half-conscious mind toyed with this peculiar insight.  The idea was too foreign to ignore and he slowly awakened.  He lay still for a moment, his drowsy mind trying to assess his surroundings.

He was in a bed.  A soft, unbelievably comfortable bed. His body didn’t know what to make of this.  He had never known such comfort before.  His mind sifted through foggy sense memories : his bare cot under the stairs. . . his hard, threadbare mattress in Dudley’s second bedroom. . .the crisp, sterile firmness  of an Infirmary bed. . .even his dorm bed was coarse and lumpy compared to the fluffiness that cushioned his body now.  He felt like he was drifting on a cloud.  Was he on a cloud? Was he dead? 

The cold foot tingled as it warmed. No.  He probably wasn’t dead if his foot tingled. He decided to open his eyes. He squinted against the unexpected glaring light.  He blinked groggily and automatically reached out an arm.  His hand bumped a hard surface – groping and finding the familiar shape of his glasses.  He put them on and stared up.  A brilliant blue sky shimmered above him.  For a confusing moment he thought he was in a bed out of doors – then the memories flooded back.  Skylight.  Bedroom.  The cottage.  Snape.

He sighed happily, wakefulness expanding in a rush of excitement.  He sat up, glancing around with a sleepy smile.  He was in his room. . .the wonderful room Snape gave him last night.  Sunbeams from the skylight spilled across the bed and floor, making everything glow.  He dreamily ran a hand over his brightly colored quilt. It was rumpled and tangled a bit. . .evidence of Harry’s customary restlessness.  He always thrashed about in his sleep. . .it wasn’t uncommon for him to awaken shivering, with his pillow and blanket cast aside, or even dumped on the floor.  The fact that his pillow and covers were still relatively in place on the bed meant he must have slept very deeply.  He realized he did feel much more rested than usual.

He stretched like a contented cat, briefly considering just rolling over and going back to sleep.  The heavenly soft bed  and warm quilt would have made it easy.  But anticipation, curiosity, and an urgent pressure in his bladder chased away the temptation,  so he clambered out of bed and scampered across the room to the bathroom.  He tended to his most pressing need, then went over to the sink to wash up.  He nearly started at the unfamiliar reflection that blinked back at him from the mirror over the sink.  The boy in the mirror bore only a slight resemblance to Harry.  The nose was the same, as were the slightly round cheeks.  But the chin was sharper, and the hazel eyes behind squarish gold glasses looked larger and more slanted.  He brushed chestnut-brown curls off  his forehead, frowning at the lighting-bolt scar glaring against his pale skin.  Apparently, he had either unwittingly washed off the Muggle make-up before going to bed, or it had worn off during the night. He made a mental note to ask Snape if there was a spell to fix the makeup so it wouldn’t rub off.

Harry glanced up at the blue ceramic clock perched on a shelf above the toilet.  He was surprised to discover it was only a little after seven – earlier than he expected.  His stomach growled with hunger, but he decided he wanted a bath more than food.  The constant travel the day before had left him feeling grubby and dreadfully smelly. He filled the antique tub, even adding some bubble brew he found in the tiny corner linen cabinet.  To his relief, the iridescent blue bubbles didn’t smell flowery or feminine, but filled the room with a light clean scent that reminded him of sea air and mountain forests.  He indulged himself with a scandalously long soak in the hottest water he could stand. . .a blissful luxury he’d only ever experienced in the Hogwarts Infirmary. The Quidditch changing room and Gryffindor dorm baths were both limited to shower stalls, and the Dursleys had never permitted him to waste their hot water on a bath.  Hot baths were not for worthless freaks like Harry.

Since he was old enough to stand, Harry had been restricted to two-minute cold showers – and even then, only when he smelled so bad even his relatives couldn’t ignore the stench.   When Harry had first started school, the other children had complained loudly that the shy, skinny boy was ‘stinky’ and they refused to sit next to him.  Harry had been shocked and humiliated.  His teacher sent a note home the first day, politely requesting that Harry be taught proper hygiene.  His Aunt Petunia sent back a stiff reply, claiming she had tried to bathe her troublesome nephew to no avail, and that the boy had ‘inherited’ a chronic offensive body odor from his ‘low class’ father.  The teacher just looked at him with revolted pity. Harry had been mortified at his classmates’ hurtful remarks, and had hidden a bottle of water and an old flannel in his cupboard, to wash himself with as best he could between the infrequent showers he was allowed.  Even though he tried to stay clean, the ignominy followed him throughout his Muggle school years.  Urged on by a spiteful Dudley, many of his classmates continued to call him ‘Pongy Potter’ – saddling the shunned boy with yet another stigma to isolate him from his peers. 

When he started at Hogwarts, Harry had been thrilled and relieved to gain unlimited access to hot showers.  He showered religiously every morning – often at night as well – and was obsessively mindful of his own odor.  After every Quidditch practice, when he felt especially dirty and sweaty, he had always been the last to leave the changing room.  He soaped and rinsed himself at least three times,  causing some of his teammates to tease him about his excessive cleanliness.  Harry didn’t care – he had much rather be mocked for being too clean than being dirty.  And even when he was freshly showered, he sometimes worried that despite his efforts, he still smelled bad. He had never spoken of it to anyone, and it wasn’t something he gave a lot of conscious thought to, but deep down inside he still felt like the stinky, unwashed little boy so cruelly reviled by his classmates. It was a painful insecurity that had never really left him.

After dutifully scrubbing away every trace of his travel grime, Harry lounged in the scented water, contentedly watching his toes and fingers turn pale and wrinkled. By the time a timid knock sounded on the bathroom door, the small guest soap he had washed with was nearly melted away to nothing.

“Little Master?”

Harry recognized the high, diffident voice belonging to the house elf he’d met briefly last night. “Yes?”

“Professor Westlake has requested that I fetch you for breakfast,  Little Master.”

“Thank you – I’ll be right out.”

“Shall I lay out clean attire for Little Master?”

“No thanks,” Harry frowned in embarrassment.  He knew the tiny creature was only trying to help, but he could certainly dress himself, for Merlin’s sake!  “I can manage.  Please tell . . .” he hesitated, barely remembering their ruse in time. “Please tell my cousin I’ll be down directly.”

“Yes, Little Master!”

Harry let out the stopper in the tub and rose to dry himself off.  He would have speak to the elf about calling him by his name, he decided.  That ‘Little Master’ business would not do at all.  It made him feel like a right poncy prig and reminded him way too much of Draco Malfoy.  He could just imagine swarms of house elves fawning over the pampered Slytherin, bowing and squeaking “Yes, Little Master! No, Little Master! As you wish, Little Master!”  The thought made him snort derisively.

He glanced in the mirror again and swiped a hand through his clean wet curls.  He was perversely pleased that his transfigured locks stuck out all over his head almost as messily  as his natural hair did.  In a surge of boyish defiance, he decided not to comb it, leaving the untidy mop as silent proof that he was no spoiled, prissy Mama’s boy like Malfoy, thank you very much!

With a towel wrapped around his waist, Harry puffed up his skinny chest and swaggered out of the bathroom. Indulging his anti-swank mood a bit further, he rifled through the clothes the house elf had hung in his wardrobe, selecting the most ordinary, understated garments he could find.  He quickly dressed in jeans, his trainers and a plain black polo shirt.  The new clothes looked nice, but they were far from ‘Little Lord of the Manor’ and they didn’t make Harry feel like a complete berk, so he was smugly satisfied.

The smell of frying bacon and hot bread drifted into his room and Harry’s stomach gave an impatient snarl. He dashed from his room and clattered down the steep stairs, hanging on tight to the railing to keep his balance.  He peered briefly to his right, spying a pleasant room that looked like it must be the lounge, then followed his nose to the left, into a small cozy dining room.

The small room was simply and sparsely furnished, with white plastered walls and a slate floor.   There were two low windows – one facing the front of the cottage, and one facing east, where the morning sun was bathing the room in a golden glow.  Harry barely noted the sideboard to his left, and the door and small fireplace in the wall beyond it.  His attention was focused on the table loaded with food before him.  It was a modest table,  just large enough to seat four comfortably, made from light poplar with a smooth unvarnished top.  A slate blue jug filled with colorful wildflowers adorned the middle of the rustic table, surrounded by Wedgewood china platters stacked with enough food to feed ten grown wizards. 

Snape stared at Harry from the far side of the table by the window.  A frown was etched on his transfigured face, but Charles Westlake’s genial features and affable brown eyes masked the dark Potion Master’s usual frosty menace, and took the sharp edge off the attempted scowl.  Harry merely grinned at him and plopped down into the chair opposite the older wizard. “Good morning, Cousin Charles!” he chirped gaily.

“Good morning, Cary,” the wizard muttered tersely.  He watched silently as Harry loaded his plate with eggs, bacon and hot buttered bread.  “I trust you slept well.”

Harry nodded, mumbling uncouthly around the mouthful of eggs he had hungrily shoveled into his mouth.  “Amazingly well!” he babbled, not noticing Snape’s grimace of distaste.  “That’s the most comfortable bed I ever slept in!  I didn’t even dream, I slept so hard!” He crunched happily on a strip of bacon as he chattered on.  The bacon was perfect – just like he liked it – crisp and brown and not too greasy.  “And my bathroom is brilliant too – especially the tub!  I soaked so long, I almost fell back asleep!  I could have stayed in there half the day, I think, if I hadn’t been so hungry!”  He turned to the house elf who had just then entered from the far door with a hot platter of kippers.  “Mercup, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes, Little Master,” the elf bobbed his head, his ears flapping.

Harry winced slightly. “Did you make the food?”  At the elf’s nod, Harry smiled at him over a fork full of egg.  “It’s terrific!”

“Thank you, Little Master,” Mercup beamed happily.

“Yeah - about that,” Harry added seriously, swallowing and pausing his eating for the first time.  “Please call me Cary, Mercup.  Just Cary, all right? That ‘Little Master’ stuff really isn’t necessary.”

Mercup’s big eyes grew larger and his smile melted. “Oh, but sir. . .I couldn’t possibly! Oh, no, Little Master – it won’t do at all, no sir, not at all! It be much too informal, sir!”

“But I want you to call me Cary,” Harry insisted.  His heart dropped when he saw large tears swell in the distressed elf’s eyes.

“Oh, please, sir…such disrespect!  It’s very noble and generous of you to suggest so, I’m sure, but please - Mercup really couldn’t!”  the elf whispered in obvious horror.

Harry threw Snape a desperate, pleading look.  The wizard cleared his throat discretely.  “It would appear, Mercup, that the traditional title makes my ward uncomfortable,” the professor interceded quietly.  “Perhaps you could address him as ‘Master Cary’?”

The elf perked up, a tremulous smile gracing his homely face.  “Yes, Professor!  Of course, if the Little…if Master Cary wishes it so!”

“I do,” Harry replied earnestly.  “Thank you, Mercup.  I would really appreciate it.”

“If it makes Master Cary happy, Mercup is pleased to address him so,” the relieved elf nodded vigorously.

“It would make Master Cary very happy,” Harry declared with cheerful emphasis.

“Are those kippers?” Snape smoothly distracted the elf, much to Harry’s relief.  He let the elf serve him, then turned his attention back to Harry as Mercup left.  “Once we have finished our breakfast , I’ll give you a quick tour of the place.  You were far too tired last night to notice much, and I’m sure you’d like a chance to get your bearings.”  

Harry concentrated on his eggs and bacon, while surreptitiously studying his new ‘guardian’ with just a hint of wariness. 

“Something on your mind?” Snape asked without looking up from his plate.

How does he do that? Harry wondered.  “I was just wondering,” he admitted hesitantly.

“About what?”

“Well. . .yesterday you said we would talk about some stuff. . .”

Cousin Charles’s face tightened with a very familiar grimace.  “Please be more specific.  The word “stuff” is perfectly acceptable when used as a verb.  When used as a noun, it is trite, common, and revoltingly vague.”

For a fleeting moment, Harry actually tried to decipher this convoluted criticism, then he gave up with a shrug.  “You said something about, uhm, rules…and a schedule.”

“Ah, yes,” the man nodded.  “I did indeed.  The schedule can wait until tomorrow.  Our journey was most tiring and I feel it only fair to give you at least a day or two to recuperate.  The rules we can go over together after we’ve had our little tour.  I must also discuss some security issues with you, and you’ll need to decide what  guise you wish to retain for the rest of the summer.”

“Guise?”  Harry frowned.  “I thought these were our permanent disguises,” he admitted, gesturing at himself and then at Snape.

“They can be, if you wish.  If you do not like this one, you may chose a different appearance.  No one has seen us yet, except for Mercup, of course, and he will neither care or comment if we change. But whatever appearance you choose today, you will have to live with for the rest of our stay here.”

Harry shrugged.  “This one is okay with me. . . but I could use some help with my scar.  The make-up rubs off too easily.”

“I can stabilize the make-up with a preservation charm, so it won’t come off by accident.”

“Will it be waterproof?”

“Reasonably so,” Snape admitted.  “It should hold up for an afternoon swim. But do not take that as license to leave it on for days.  I expect you to cleanse your face every evening, and apply the make-up fresh each morning.  I will give you a suitable cleansing cream to use. The Muggle make-up is quite greasy and if you don’t wash regularly,  you will clog your pores and develop acne.”

Harry blushed.  He had observed some of the older students struggling with this bane of every teenager’s existence.  He thought the only thing possibly more embarrassing than getting acne, was having to hear to his professor lecture him about it!  He scowled indignantly,  very tempted to suggest that a person’s hair should also be washed regularly, or it might get greasy…but he wasn’t quite that brave. He might be a Gryffindor, but he wasn’t suicidal.

He glanced over at Snape curiously. Cousin Charles had chestnut hair like his. It was little darker than Cary’s, and more wavy than curly, but it didn’t look the least bit greasy.  He wondered if Snape’s real hair was habitually dirty or just naturally oily.  Neither was a very appealing notion, so he decided not to think about that any more.

“Should I keep these glasses, or do you think we should change them?’ Harry asked.

“Actually, I have a slightly different idea,” Snape sipped his tea languidly, a sudden gleam in his camouflaged eyes.  “There has been some significant progress made in a well known healing potion designed to correct weak vision.”

Harry frowned.  “Madame Pomphrey and the eye doctor both mentioned that to me.  The doctor said it wouldn’t work for my eyes. . .he says I have a s-s-stigmatism that can’t be healed,” he stammered over the complex word.

“Astigmatism,” Snape corrected. “The present potion will not work, I agree,” he smirked mildly.  “But at the Potions Conference in France, I had a little chat with the brewer who originally developed it.  I spotted the flaw in his version almost immediately, and I believe I know how to remedy it.”

“Really?  You mean it could fix my a-stigmatism? I wouldn’t have to wear glasses at all?”

“If my theory is correct…and I’m relatively certain it is.”

“Wow!”  Harry felt a surge of astonished hope. He really hated his glasses, although he pretended he didn’t.  It wasn’t that he was vain…he didn’t care what he looked like.  But wearing glasses was really a bother.  When he was young, other children teased him about his ugly glasses, and Dudley broke them every chance he got.  And even the new magical glasses that Professor McGonagall had gotten him – though unbreakable – were still inconvenient.   They fogged up in bad weather – they were hard to fly with (which was a nuisance during Quidditch ) and he couldn’t see a thing without them.  He hated waking up blind, and having to grope for his glasses just to get out of bed.  And considering some of the dangers he had already faced in just one year as a wizard, he knew they might prove a serious handicap someday.  He worried sometimes that if he ever got into dire trouble, they might fall off and leave him helpless and vulnerable.  The thought of actually being free of the cumbersome things was almost too good to be true.  Harry looked up at Snape, who was watching him curiously.   “You really mean it?  You really think you could fix my eyes?”

“I believe so.  It will take a bit of research, and a few clinical trials, but I had planned on experimenting with it this summer.  With a little luck, I should have a verifiable cure before we return to school.”

“That’s brilliant!” Harry enthused happily.

“In the meantime,  I was going to suggest contact lenses.  The absence of glasses significantly alters your appearance.  I have obtained some wizarding lenses that are self-cleaning and self-adjusting, so they will change as your eyes change.  And they are clear – colorless - so they won’t be affected by glamour charms if we have to change your eye color for security reasons.”

“But aren’t magical contacts expensive?”

Snape glared at him and Harry wished he hadn’t said that.   “We have discussed the issue of money before, I believe.  I have already told you, you need not be concerned with expenses.  I have no intention of rehashing this debate every time I spend a galleon on you. . . .is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry still wasn’t entirely comfortable with the situation, but decided he didn’t really want to start the day with another argument.

“I will give you the contacts later, and teach you how to insert them and care for them,” Snape continued a bit snappishly.  “The lenses I have procured are breathable, and can be safely slept in.  You will have two pair. . .you may wear one pair for a week, then change them out.”

“It will be brilliant to be able to see when I wake up,” Harry remarked, hoping to soothe the man’s irritation.

“As for the rest of our disguise, as I mentioned before, we will be using a variety of methods to maintain them.  Since some wizards can see through glamours, we will only use the glamour for certain features:  the shape of our faces, our complexions.  We will use a potion for eye color: it’s undetectable and lasts for about a week. And we will use an entirely different subterfuge to alter your hair.”

“Different?” Harry didn’t care for the tiny, evil smirk the wizard gave him.  Something told him he wasn’t going to like this.

“I’ll explain later,” the professor dismissed with a slight shrug.  “Finish your breakfast.  We have much to accomplish today and we won’t get it done if you continue to dawdle.”

Harry resumed eating with a tiny sigh.  He was truly grateful for Snape’s intervention with the Dursleys and his obvious efforts to make Harry comfortable and safe…but why did the man have to be so touchy?!  He had a sinking feeling he would have to spend the next month walking on eggshells around the irascible wizard.