After a rather dull lecture on venom antidotes, Severus declined the polite invitations from some of his peers to join them for dinner. Pleading exhaustion, he stalked through the hotel lobby, stopping briefly at the reception desk. "Have there been any owls for me?"

The witch behind the desk checked the mail slot for his room. "No, Professor Snape."

Severus scowled. "Very well. If one arrives, please have it delivered immediately. And I should like to have a light supper sent up in one hour's time."

"Of course, Professor."

Severus stomped up the stairs and down the second floor corridor. He let himself in to the shabby, low-budget room at the end of the hall beside the housekeeping closet. It was not a particularly comfortable accommodation. The room was too small to hold more than a narrow bed, small table, one chair and a cramped wardrobe. The lone window looked out over a service alley lined with trash bins, and thin walls let in every noise from the frequently used utility room next door. The room didn't even have a fireplace. If Severus had wanted to make a floo call, he would have had to use the public floo in the lobby.

The one advantage his room did offer was solitude. It was too small to accommodate more than one wizard. Due to the heavily attended Potions Symposium, the hotel was filled to capacity, and the next nearest wizard-run hotel was miles away in a less than desirable neighborhood. Most of the conference guests who had wished to stay in the hosting hotel - even those, like Severus, who were lecturing - had been forced to share accommodations with other attendees. Severus had flatly refused such a compromise. He much preferred his own stuffy cramped room to the prospect of sharing one of the hotel's more comfortable double rooms with another wizard.

Severus locked his door with a light warding charm and opened the inadequate window. A faint ocean breeze from the old port stirred the musty air. He eagerly stripped off his dark robes and took a long cooling shower. He felt slightly better once he had washed away the summer stickiness and shampooed his limp, greasy hair. Long hours bent over a cauldron made his hair exceedingly oily, and it sometimes took several latherings to get it truly clean. Severus had concocted a special shampoo specifically for this purpose, which performed the task adequately - at least better than any other products he had tried. It was a bit expensive to brew, however, so he used it sparingly.

Lank, oily hair was a common dilemma for brewers, he had noticed. One desperate brewer at the symposium had even sported a cleanly shaven head, declaring it the only remedy to the occupational condition. Severus wasn't quite ready for such a drastic solution, but the problem had piqued his interest.

His own greasy hair had never bothered him all that much. He was not a vain man; he was mostly indifferent to his appearance, knowing he was considered less than attractive. He was scrupulous in his personal hygiene, of course, and did take pride in his plain but modest attire. His robes were always clean and meticulously pressed, and his boots always polished. But he had never bothered much with his hair, other than keeping it washed and bluntly trimmed.

Judging from the frequency with which the topic was discussed at the symposium, however, it was clear that many other brewers possessed far more vanity than he did. In fact, so many of his peers seemed so distressed and distracted by the problem, that Severus had been intrigued by the possibilities. Apparently, aside from Severus, even the best among them had had little success in concocting their own remedies. He had decided to re-evaluate his personal shampoo recipe when he returned to his private lab, with the intention of perhaps improving it. Based upon the conversations he had overheard so far, potion brewers around the world would be willing to pay an exorbitant price for any product that relieved them of this unpleasant side-effect of their profession. If Severus devised a superior shampoo and marketed it directly to his fellow brewers, he had a feeling it could prove quite lucrative. He had already made a few notes regarding fragrances and additives that might improve his base formula.

Severus wrapped himself in a light-weight dressing gown to answer the door when his dinner arrived. He sneered at the snooty waiter who brought his tray, tossing him an insultingly meager tip and shutting the door in his face. Then he sat at the small rickety table and ate his dinner in solitary contentment.

At least he should have been content. Everything had gone well so far. He had attended several genuinely interesting lectures and been inspired by the exchange of knowledge and theory he'd shared with some of Europe's finest Potions Masters. He was grudgingly thankful that he had let Albus talk him into attending the symposium. Though not normally sociable, he had to acknowledge that spending time with others who shared his passion had rejuvenated him.

His own lecture had been a stunning success. Severus' brittle, insolent manner had fostered few friendships among his peers. But despite his personal unpopularity, every well-informed brewer at the conference knew of Severus Snape's brilliance and skill, and his lecture had been packed to capacity. Every seat in the largest lecture room had been claimed, with many younger, less prestigious brewers standing in back, lining the walls. His question and answer period after the lecture had been brisk and enthusiastic, running well beyond the allotted time. The symposium organizers had finally demanded its conclusion, complaining (much to Severus' private amusement) that no one had shown up for two competing lectures scheduled at the same time. The discourse had continued, spilling out into the lobby, until Severus had been forced to practically shove his way through the congratulatory crowd of admirers to escape to his room.

The award that the organizers insisted on bestowing on Severus wouldn't be presented until the following evening, during the final banquet of the symposium. Severus couldn't have cared less. A cheesy trophy and mention in a few trade periodicals meant nothing to him, compared to the praise and recognition of his work by his peers. The contagious excitement of his fellow brewers over his advances and innovations were Severus' greatest rewards, although he never would have admitted it out loud.

But even his professional triumphs could not ease the brooding discontent that still plagued him. Severus picked pensively at the remains of his scarcely eaten food, his thoughts lingering on far darker matters. The events at the end of term, and the possible return of the Dark Lord haunted him. Even more pressing, was his concern for the one who had alerted him to that threat. . .Harry Potter.

He had to admit he was peeved with Potter . . .peeved and a bit disappointed. He had offered to correspond with the boy over the summer - not a trivial concession for the solitary professor. He had not only written first, but had sent three letters (three!) - all the way from France, mind you - and the rude, thoughtless boy had not bothered to reply. Potter hadn't even sent a simple note acknowledging receipt of his letters!

At first, Severus had been merely annoyed. He blamed the boy's laziness and unreliability for the slight. But his third letter, sent out two nights before, had stated in very strong language that Severus expected an immediate response. He had still received no reply, and he was growing worried. Harry was generally polite, even overly considerate of others' feelings(in Snape's opinion). He could not believe the boy would ignore his letters. The only alternatives, were that either Harry had not received them, or he was unable to reply.

I wonder if those Muggle relatives of his are to blame? The boy did say his uncle hated owls. . .he even sent that pet owl of his to the Burrow for the summer. . .Perhaps the Muggles are taking his letters - withholding them, or even destroying them.

Severus sighed. He was starting to get a very bad feeling about this whole Potter business. He really needed to check up on the boy.

Pity I must stay for the entire conference. But I have to collect that stupid award - it's the main reason Albus sent me here in the first place. And then there's that bit of undercover work for the Order. . .Italy and the Balkans! - it could take several weeks to make my contacts and complete the mission.

Severus shook his head, rose and pulled a parchment from his luggage. Retrieving quill and ink he began a message to Minerva. She had promised to keep an eye on Potter - he would owl her tonight. If she replied and reassured him, he would continue his scheduled itinerary. If not. . . .well, he'd cross that sticky bridge when he came to it, he decided.

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

"Boy! Haven't you finished that lawn yet?" The sour-faced woman's shrill voice could be heard halfway down the block.

The boy's response was much softer. "Yes, Aunt Petunia. I'm just putting the mower away."

"Well, be quick about it!" the woman snapped from the kitchen stoop.

Beneath the manicured shrubs that lined the yard, a lean tabby cat crouched, watching the scene with large unblinking eyes. She was a proud, distinguished-looking cat, with unique markings around her eyes. Her long tail swished back and forth in a curt, agitated manner and her fixed stare stayed on the skinny, dark-haired boy as he rolled the mower into the garden shed and crossed the yard to the woman. His tattered, over-sized t-shirt was stuck to his back with sweat and he moved stiffly, as if every step was painful.

"Don't dawdle! What's the matter with you, boy?" the woman sneered.

The boy shrugged and winced. "Sunburn," he muttered wearily.

"Oh, quit whining. A little sun never hurt anyone," she sniffed, then pointed to a paint can on the stoop. "The shed needs a new coat of paint. The tray and rollers are inside. And don't take all afternoon - your uncle wants the gutters cleaned before dinner."

The boy blinked up at her behind his large glasses, now smeared with sweat and grass clippings. "May I have some water, please?" he asked softly.

The woman peered down at him as if she smelled something nasty, and crossed her arms. "If you must," she snarled primly. "Use the hose. . . don't waste it or make a mess." She stomped back inside. "And get busy with that shed!" she warned, slamming the screen door.

From her spot beneath the shrubs, the cat hissed and emitted a low growl. She quietly sharpened her claws in the rocky dirt with a feral gleam in her eyes. She watched the boy shamble to the garden hose that coiled on a rack on the back wall. He turned on the tap, and with a nervous glance at the kitchen window, allowed the water to run long enough for the heated water stored in the sun-baked hose to run out. Then he bent and gulped eagerly at the colder water that followed. When he had quenched his thirst, the boy raised the hose over his head, gasping in relief as the water ran over his head. He rinsed his smeared glasses and splashed the water on his sunburned neck and cheeks. A sharp rap on the kitchen window brought him back from his brief respite, and he turned off the hose and recoiled it on the rack with careful precision. When every coil was flawlessly aligned, he picked up the paint can and shuffled over to the shed to prepare for his next task.

The cat stared at the perfectly coiled garden hose and seemed to shiver a bit. Her stark gaze swept across the back yard. Everything in the structured square plot was equally meticulous. The grass was neatly trimmed, every clipping raked and swept up. The flower beds were weed-free and carefully ordered, with precise blocks of color arranged in rows. The shrubs had been pruned to within an inch of their lives, squared off and manicured, without a leaf out of place. Even the patio pavers had been painstakingly swept and scrubbed, standing out stark and uniform against the pristine lawn. In the back corner, stood a small white garden shed, nearly new and clearly not in need of fresh paint. Every feature in the yard was fastidiously tidy, lovingly tended and well-cared for. . . .everything except the small grubby boy who was sweating in the hot afternoon sun, carefully rolling new paint over an immaculate shed wall.

Unobserved, the cat backed slowly out of her hiding place, into the neighbor's lawn. With an angry swish of her tail, she trotted purposefully off, across three lawns and under a picket fence into a small, unkempt yard. It was nearly the antithesis of the sterile, picture-perfect Dursley yard. Careless beds of weedy flowers spilled across the uncut lawn in a profusion of brightly hued blooms. There were numerous colorful bird houses, birdbaths and feeders hanging in the higher branches of two dwarf apple trees and an old brass sundial perched in a corner. The rambling stone patio was nearly overrun with thick tendrils of soft green Irish moss, and a large weathered planter bordered the outer edge. The planter was the only obviously tended bed in the yard; it overflowed with an assortment of flourishing herb plants. A variety of mismatched bowls and saucers were scattered all over the patio and small back porch, containing water and cat food for the cluster of furry inhabitants that now eyed the intruding cat with curiosity.

The tawny cat ignored the resident felines, slinking confidently up to the back door. She sat and let out a loud yowl, sharp with determination. After several more insistent cries, the back door finally opened. A frumpy, elderly woman peered out from behind the screened door, blinking down at the newcomer. Her battered housecoat had seen better days, and her worn house shoes scuffled on the wooden threshold. Strands of thinning gray hair escaped the garish pink net on her head but she seemed blithely unconcerned by her own disheveled appearance. She stared at the tawny cat, her wrinkled face breaking into a pleased, welcoming smile. "Minerva! What a lovely surprise! Do come in!" She pushed open the screened door and motioned the cat inside.

The tawny cat slipped past her, padding through the mudroom into the modest kitchen beyond. She sat, twitched her nose once and began to shimmer faintly. With startling speed, her whole form shifted, growing and transforming with practiced ease.

Minerva McGonagall tugged her tall pointed hat down more securely over her neatly arranged bun. She sniffed, smoothed her long forest-green robe, and gave the old woman a slight bow. "Good afternoon, Arabella. I'm so sorry to disturb you. I was hoping I could use your floo for a moment."

"But of course, dearie!' the woman beamed at her. "Do make yourself at home! It's wonderful to see you! I get so few visitors these days. I'll make us a nice cuppa, shall I? Please - have a seat!"

"Thank you, Arabella," Minerva haughtily surveyed the half-dozen cats that prowled about the room. She pulled out a chair at the small dinette and glared at the fat feline sprawled in it. The cat took one look at the frowning witch and leapt down, slinking off into the lounge.

"I'll just put the kettle on." Arabella Figg bustled about the tiny kitchen. "My goodness, Minerva - it's been ages, hasn't it? I haven't laid eyes on you since a few days after. . .ah, well - those were dark times, they were - best not to dwell on it. What brings you to Surrey?"

Minerva sat primly at the table. "I just popped by to check in on little Harry Potter."

"Well, it's about time!" Arabella snorted, slamming the filled kettle down on the stove burner. "Too little, too late, if you ask me - still, I'm glad someone has decided to take notice."

Minerva blinked, surprised by the squib's sudden vehemence. "What do you mean?"

"I've been begging that old fool for years to attend to that poor child," Arabella sniffed. "It's about time he sent someone along."

Minerva stared at her, trying to decipher the woman's irate remarks. "Old fool?"

"Dumbledore, of course!" Figg snapped. "I'll never understand the man. He went to all the trouble and expense to place me here, you'd think he'd at least listen. . ." She seemed to catch herself, and fluttered at bit nervously as she set out cups and saucers. "Not that I'm complaining, mind you. It's a lovely wee house, and my income is more than I earn, I suppose - I can do so little for the poor boy."

"Poor boy?" Minerva echoed, hoping to encourage her to talk.

Fortunately, encouragement was not needed for the chatty, obviously lonely old squib. "Such a sweet, polite boy, Harry. He deserves far better care than those Dursleys have ever given him, in my opinion. I've told the Headmaster, time and again, that they're unkind to the boy. And that fat cousin of his - a right stinker, that one is - the terror of the neighborhood! He and his little gang of thugs torment all the younger children, but poor Harry takes the worst of it, I'm afraid. Of course the parents never stop it - you'd think that dim-witted little slug walked on water, to hear Petunia Dursley speak! I wouldn't be surprised if they encouraged their son's bullying. They certainly don't look after little Harry. I think they do the very least they can for the unfortunate child - not out of compassion, but just so's they can keep him working."

"I did observe Harry performing an excessive amount of outdoor work today," Minerva agreed cautiously.

"Today? Every day, you mean. I'm sure he does all the indoor chores as well, while Petunia and that lump of a son sit on their fat bums." Arabella chuckled evilly. "Right sorry they were, I reckon, when Harry went off to Hogwarts. They lost their house elf then, they did. Dursley had to pay a gardener's crew to keep the yard up in Harry's absence, and Pet had a char woman in twice a week," she nodded knowingly. "Well, you don't think that lazy lot's gonna stir their stumps to keep the place up, do you? For all their complaining, I'll bet they're glad to have their slave labor back for the summer."

"That's appalling," Minerva scowled indignantly.

"Too right it is! And do you know what they told folk when Harry was off to school?" Arabella sneered. "They told everyone in the neighborhood they'd packed him off to a reform school for juvenile delinquents. Can you fathom that? A gentle, polite boy like Harry - a delinquent?" Arabella growled. "Bah! Worthless lot, those Dursleys." She set about making their tea, and took out a tin of slightly stale biscuits, which Minerva eyed skeptically.

"Has Harry spoken to you about their treatment of him?"

"Oh, the dear boy never complains - not that he would to me, I suppose. He doesn't really know me all that well. I rarely see him - only once or twice a year at best."

"Really? That's all?"

Arabella nodded, sniffing over her tea. "The Dursleys leave him with me when they're going on any kind of family outing - birthdays, holidays and the like. They don't include poor Harry in anything fun, I gather. Harry doesn't know about my arrangement with Dumbledore, of course, but when he's here, I do what I can to make it up to him. I make sure to feed him up good - that boy's way too thin - I don't think she feeds him proper."

Minerva scowled, remembering the skinny, pale little boy who walked into the Sorting Feast less than a year ago.

"And those clothes! They're always way too big for him! The fat lump's hand-me-downs, as if they hadn't a ha-penny to spend on the poor child. . . a plain sham, that is, when his cousin has endless new clothes and more toys than you could shake a stick at. Disgraceful! Those stingy swine could spare a pound or two to dress Harry decent-like if they cared to, I warrant."

"Have you mentioned all this to the Headmaster?" Minerva asked, trying to conceal her growing fury.

"Of course! What do you take me for? Once a year the old man calls by to get my report. I've been telling him for years that's no fit home for the-Boy-Who-Lived! Harry deserves better - Hell's Bells, Minerva! - any child deserves better! But Dumbledore never pays me any heed. Says the boy is safest there. Harrumph!" she grunted derisively. "Safe from who, I'd like to know! Not from the Dursleys mean ways - or from that bully of a cousin! It's just not right," she sighed. "Still, I'm glad you've come round, Minerva. Better late than never, they says. Someone has to talk some sense into the Headmaster. Perhaps you'll have better luck than this old squib."

"Oh, I'll be talking to him, never worry," Minerva vowed rigidly. "Speaking of which, I think I'll be needing that floo now."

"Course, dearie - help yourself. There's a bit of powder in the sugar bowl on the mantle," she motioned to the large fireplace on the far kitchen wall. "Don't keep much about, I'm afraid. I just keep it on hand for emergencies, in case I ever need to floo call the Headmaster."

"I'll be sure to bring you more. I'll probably use most of it," Minerva palmed a small handful of floo powder and knelt gracefully on the hearth. "I believe this will require more than a floo call," she said crisply. "I've a few things that were better said face to face, I think. Thank you for your hospitality, Arabella. I'll be in touch again, very soon I expect."

"Anytime, Minerva! It's so nice to see someone from the old crowd," Arabella beamed at her.

"Goodbye, Arabella." Minerva tossed the powder into the fireplace, her fuming features ignited by green flame.

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

Somewhere in Wales, an unsuspecting Albus Dumbledore watched his niece's happy brood playing an unruly, somewhat raucous pickup game of Quidditch. He glanced up from his comfy lawn chair when his older brother limped out from the house with a tall, stately witch by his side. One look at the grim expression on the Deputy Headmistress' face deflated the mellow happy mood he had enjoyed all day. Albus rose to meet them. "Minerva! What a pleasant surprise!"

Professor Minerva McGonagall apparently found nothing at all pleasant about their meeting, but she nodded graciously to his brother Aberforth. "I floo called to ask if I might speak with you, Headmaster. Your brother kindly invited me to come through."

"Excellent! Thank you, Fortie. My dear Minerva, you look rather perturbed - is something wrong? No trouble at Hogwarts, I hope?"

"Not at Hogwarts," Minerva replied crisply with distinct censure in her displeased gaze. "But yes, something is wrong. . . and perturbed is a gross understatement, I assure you."

"What is it?" Albus asked with concern.

"It's Harry Potter," Minerva replied ominously.

"Harry? Is he hurt? What's happened?"

"Hurt? That depends on your definition of hurt, Albus. What has happened - evidently what has been happening for quite some time - is those Muggle relatives of his!"

"Ah!" A flash of understanding ignited in the blue eyes and Dumbledore's expression smoothed into calm resolve. "Yes, of course. Perhaps we'd best discuss this privately." He turned to his brother who was watching them curiously. "Forgive me, Fortie - just a bit of school business." Albus bowed slightly. "Come, Minerva - let's stroll down by the river, shall we? Please excuse us, Fortie?"

" Of course, dear boy." Aberforth happily claimed his brother's chair and waved them off cheerfully. As he watched the two stride off toward the river, he noted the stiff posture and stern indignation sharply evident in his brother's imposing deputy. With a wry chuckle, he shook his head. He was suddenly very glad he wasn't the one on the receiving end of the daunting witch's barely suppressed wrath.