Hogwarts sometimes felt like the best and worst place a boy could live. For example, Harry loved having freedom to roam the castle. The way the staircases moved, the ghosts that talked to you when you were bored (they had all the best gossip!) – each and every single day was fuelled with a new discovery. Then there were the house elves that plied him with sweets and chocolates- the best friends a boy could ask for! But Harry knew that there was a whole world outside the castle. A world that he was so often denied access to because of who he was- the Boy Who Lived. It was a title that no longer filled him with awe. He was used to it- it was as much a part of him as his flashing green eyes and lightning bolt scar. He could never escape that particular epitaph, never be ‘just Harry’ in his own right.

Living at Hogwarts compounded Harry’s sense of isolation. No other boys and girls his age would enter the castle until they reached eleven years old, and –in an unusual act of wisdom beyond his seven years- Harry wished that at times he could just fade into the background (he’d be able to get away with a lot more if that were the case). Every Hogwarts student knew his name- his story, as Mummy liked to put it- he’d caught everyone of them staring at his scar at some point, whispering in none so dulcet tones “Ooh look it’s Harry Potter- looks just like his Father did!” Some of the students weren’t so bad, like Charlie for instance. Charlie was his hero- even Severus had begrudgingly admitted that he was a ‘half decent fellow’. He’d taught Harry how to play Quidditch last summer, and when Harry was old enough he was going to be a seeker just like Charlie!

He wondered if he could tell Charlie about Marcus… Charlie was sixteen, after all, and sixteen’s practically ancient so he’d probably know the answer to just about anything. Daddy certainly seemed to, and he wasn’t even thirty! That guilty feeling crept back into Harry’s stomach, he had always been taught that it was better to own up and tell the truth rather than hope one’s problems would go away. He was scared of telling Mummy. He’d heard Daddy pacing up and down his study complaining to Uncle Albus that Mummy had enough on her plate with carrying the baby and that she didn’t need any more ‘stress’. Harry wasn’t quite sure what ‘stress’ was, exactly. It sounded like dress, and Mummy certainly had a lot of those… but somehow that didn’t seem like what he thought Daddy was talking about. Daddy wouldn’t understand either. He had been told, by Aunt Minerva that Daddy was the bravest man she knew (but not to tell him that!). Something about spy… spiders…? Harry shuddered, he hated spiders, and he guessed that Daddy must be brave then. Harry was supposed to be brave- he was a Potter, and a sort of Snape maybe, so he should be able to look after himself.

He’d had a bad day at school. His pride was still smarting after his reprimand the night before, then having to say sorry to those stupid slimy Snakes at breakfast… Mummy had insisted on holding his hand all the way into his classroom at the Academy, which made Seamus and Ernie laugh at him and call him a baby so he’d thrown his pumpkin juice over their drawings and Madam Buggle had made him stand in the corner. Everyone knew that Seamus could fake tears at the drop of a hat, only Madam Buggle had seemed a bit peeved when he’d said that to her. And now he was fighting back hot fat tears that threatened to leak from his eyes down his flushed cheeks, wiping furiously at them with his sleeve whilst the class’ attention was focus on a rambunctious game of magical chairs. He didn’t want to go back home, he knew that at some moment in the near future he’d be accosted by Marcus and his pals, and he didn’t want to be dared into doing anything else that would most likely wind him up in trouble again. It had been fun at first, when they’d asked him to put dungbombs in Filch’s cabinet. At least Filch was mean and nasty- even Daddy called the man abhorrent- but still, he liked cats and he’d never forget the pitiful mewing sound Mrs Norris had made when he’d dyed her fur. He felt so out of his depth now. Uncle Albus would be able to stop them in a second, but they’d be sure to tell on him. Then Mummy and Daddy would know the horrible truth, and they’d fight again over it- and what about the baby…

Maybe he could just run away. Like Peter Pan and his lost boys! Sure they had Captain Hook to deal with, but he couldn’t be much scarier than that Slytherin Prefect who always tried to push him into the lake or hit him with a bludger. He’d never be able to get out of the castle, though- especially with Mummy holding his hand from the dungeons all the way to the classroom! Harry kicked the wall, frustrated. It wasn’t nearly as satisfactory as Seamus’ shin, but it would suffice. For now. His cousin, Dudley, was always kicking things- people, dogs, doors- but he reckoned that Uncle Vernon had never so much as glared at Dudders, let alone smacked him. That guilty feeling was back again, he felt as sick as he did at his Aunt and Uncle’s house last year when Petunia had made a foul tasting onion soup and Daddy had given him that look that meant he had to at least eat some of it.

It wasn’t fair that Harry had to stay at Hogwarts all the time. Sure, now and then he got to go play at a friends house- mainly Neville’s because Daddy thought his Gran was an ‘admirable’ lady (seeing as she shouted all the time and ran her household with military precision)- but other than the trip to Little Whinging for Dudley’s birthday tea he was stuck inside the castle grounds. He wanted to go to that place that the Dursley’s went to last Christmas- that exotic place that sounded like a flower or something (and he should know flower names, the amount of times he’d had to listen to Mummy reading through her gardening book trying to pick a name for the baby). Florida, that was it. They went there for two weeks, and last summer they went to Spain and Vernon got burnt like a lobster which had made Daddy chuckle so hard! Maybe if Harry ran away he could join a travelling circus and get to visit all those mysterious places. He’d never been to the circus before, but he’d read stories about it and he was sure that he’d be a half decent juggler if given the chance.

All this thinking of the Dursleys made Harry wonder. They were going there for the annual celebration of all things Dudley that weekend. Maybe he’d be able to persuade Mummy and Daddy to let him and his cousin go the park on their own. He was pretty sure that Mummy had used that memory spell –obliviate? - on his Aunt and Uncle after that acid pop debacle. So they wouldn’t be too horrified at the idea of him alone with their precious baby (baby whale, more like). They could play a game of hide and seek, only Harry wouldn’t hide- he’d run, run away to London and live like a muggle… like that boy in the story Daddy read to him. Oliver Twist? It had been a bit of a sad story in parts, but Harry thought it sounded rather wonderfully exciting nevertheless. He’d only ever seen photos of London before, not even the type that move- just the ordinary muggle kind. There was some boy in his class who’s Daddy was a muggle and his Mummy a witch, and his parents were some word that began with a D. Deee…. The word escaped his memory, but it meant that Michael lived with his Mummy in Edinburgh mostly, but went to his Daddy’s flat in London for a few weeks every summer. He’d taken photos of these great big red buses, shiny black cars called taxis- and even a photo of this special gold crown thing that Mummy said belonged to the Queen of England! He wasn’t really sure who that was, but she must be important for Mummy to sound so impressed, and he didn’t like to seem ignorant (despite that when Daddy was mad he called him a dunderhead) so he acted like he knew what she meant.

Harry’s tears were but a distant memory. He didn’t even hear Madam Buggle call him back to his seat, and jumped like a scared cat when she poked him out of his thoughts to go and meet Mummy for home time. He’d act like a really good boy when he got home, even offer to scrub some of Daddy’s smelly old cauldrons! If it didn’t seem like such an adventure, and if he wasn’t so worried about the dares, he would be a very sorry little boy at the thought of leaving them. Perhaps it was for the best, anyways. Mummy was having a new baby; she’d have that to fuss over soon enough. And a part of Harry knew that the child would be Daddy’s baby in a way that he could never be. It didn’t matter that Uncle Albus said that Daddy was sometimes a bit too strict because he cared for Harry so much that he only wanted the best for him. Harry knew that Daddy wasn’t his real Daddy, wasn’t that what Marcus and Warrington always said? That Harry was a burden, and that he didn’t belong in the dungeons because he was a filthy half blood. His eyes wanted to fill up again; great salty tears unshed at those words that had hurt his feelings so much. They’d said that in order to get him to steal the unicorn horn from the safe, he’d felt so mad at Daddy that he’d done it without thinking, and Daddy had no idea that it was missing. Since then they’d had him do so many naughty things, saying that if he didn’t then they’d tell his father that they saw him throw the horn into the lake. One of the big boys had said the horn was so rare that even the Malfoys didn’t have one, and so, despite Harry’s limited experience in testing human reaction- he was pretty sure that he was better off disappeared rather than having Daddy find out what he’d done. Though what worried him was that Marcus would tell on him even if after he’d run away, so Daddy would know and Mummy might find out and be sad and….

Harry stopped his train of thought. He didn’t think Marcus would tell if he ran, because that would mean that Marcus would have to admit to making Harry do all those horribly mean pranks. Pranks that Harry had been punished for, hard! Not that Daddy would want to take points off his own house- but Uncle Albus might, and then Daddy would be even madder. Harry shook his mop of messy black hair. There was no point thinking about it any more. Come Saturday, he was going to embark on a fantastic adventure, and nobody was going to stop him. He just had to keep out of trouble until then- or else Mummy and Daddy might make him stay at home with Aunt Minerva… Oh the horrors!

Harry woke up with a start on Saturday morning. He could hear a lot of banging and clashing coming from the kitchen, it reminded him of those noise made when Aunt Petunia had hit him over the head with a frying pan after he gave Dudley an acid pop. That thought made him giggle to himself, Daddy had been so mad at her that he’d turned Uncle Vernon into a toad, but then Mummy had done that spell and made everything be forgot (until they got home!). He stopped giggling abruptly, as he looked up and saw his Father leaning on the wall against his Gryffindor’s Rule, Slytherin’s Drool poster that Charlie gave him.

Harry dived under the covers, cocooning himself in his own private fort- his promise to be a good boy once again tossed aside when it came to bath time. His father sighed and shook his head.

“There is absolutely no need for theatrics this early in the morning- there will be enough of a show this afternoon.”

With a wave of Severus’ wand the covers were pulled off the child, the bed made, the boy’s feet inside his ruby red slippers and his arms tangled up in a red and gold dressing gown. Severus exhaled deeply, that spell never fully worked with Potter, and he was sure that was somehow related to the boy’s wilful nature and constant need to do whatever it is that he is told not to.

He untangled Harry, and then took his hand to propel him out of the room, the recalcitrant child dragging his feet all the way all the way to the bathroom. Several splashes and promises to be fed to the Giant Squid later- a squeaky clean Harry and dampened Severus joined Lily in the kitchen. Lily looked up from her cooking to smile at her child. She’d barely been able to sleep more than a solid half an hour all night due to the baby having a game of quidditch inside her stomach, and today of all days just had to be ‘Lunch chez Dursleys’. A trip to Privet Drive was just the last things that she needed, especially after last year. One thing for sure- it was going to be a long day and it had barely started.

Lily, Severus and Harry flooed into the fireplace of a magical acquaintance whose house was only a few minutes walk from Privet Drive. Lily had insisted on Harry jamming a baseball cap over his head in order to mask the telltale scar, for it would just lead to Vernon making comments about how peculiar Harry looked and how superior Dudley was by comparison. It ought not to bother her, but that scar was Harry’s talisman and it did not do to be mocked by such a man.

The three of them appeared to be the epitome of any normal well-to-do muggle family: Snape in his dark ‘man about town’ business suit, Lily in a flowing green dress that matched her eyes perfectly, and little Harry clean and tidy and trotting along without complaint, grinning knowingly to himself. Lily halted abruptly outside number ten to run through her traditional Dursley faux pas checklist, safely out of nosy neighbour earshot and prying eyes peering through net curtains, she looked at Harry and began:

“Turn out your pockets, young man, I do not expect to have to call the healers in this time.” Ever the dutiful son, Harry’s pockets were empty (his sock was another matter). Lily continued to remind them what subjects to avoid before finishing her speech with a final “your wand, Severus?”

Severus grunted to himself, grimacing as he was forced to hand over the precious object. Harry smirked impishly at Daddy, flashing him a toothy smile that did little to abate Severus’ dark mood. His eyes flashed angrily, and Lily looked deeply into his face and frowned in the way that always tore at his sensibilities.

“Don’t you look at me like that Severus Snape. If I could trust either one of you to act your age and behave like proper wizards then we wouldn’t have to go through this rigmarole every time, would we?” said Lily, spitting out her own mouthful of vitriol. She turned on her heel, wrapped her arms around her stomach as if to protect the baby from the emotional turmoil of a Dursley visit, and strode off in the direction of number four. Father and son winced in succession at her harsh tone, snapping at her heels like two well-trained dogs up the driveway and towards the house.

Lily slammed her hand against the doorbell, and the first verse of ‘Jerusalem’ blared, loudly. Petunia soon appeared, ensconced in a frilly puce coloured apron, she glowered fleetingly before making signs at the three to enter her home as surreptitiously as possible.

“Shoes!” Petunia shrieked. Her eyes roving as if monitor for a mere modicum of dirt. She ushered them into the living room, Severus and Lily gingerly sat on lone vacant sofa whilst Harry stood awkwardly. Dudley was sprawled over the entire two-seater, and Petunia and Vernon were sitting in the armchairs. Severus reached forwards and tugged Harry’s arm, pulling him closer so that he could hoist him onto his lap. Harry squirmed, trying to get comfortable, until Severus’ reserves of patience were finally depleted and he whispered a nasty threat into the boy’s ear. Harry blushed, sat up straight, and then leaned his head back against his father’s chest and quieted down. Severus patted his hand, more to calm himself than Harry.

Conversation was never easy on these occasions. In fact, to say strained would be putting an almost too positive spin on the dialogue. Truth be told, not one of the six persons present had any desire to carry on the annual family farce. The ‘get together’ was founded by Petunia and Lily’s mother, after the birth of her first grandchild. The only word to describe the event was ‘sham’, and yet, out of respect for their mother’s memory on this one day a year both families were reunited to share a moment of misery. It had even been Iris Evans’ dying wish that the discord between her two children might one day be breached. Vernon refused to be seen in public with the Snapes, and under no circumstances would the Dursleys travel to Hogwarts with their deeply entrenched fear of magic, and so the venue was always Little Whinging. Petunia, however, was so embarrassed about having ‘those kind of people’ in her house that she drew all the curtains and refused to answer the door in case any of her ‘respectable’ friends and neighbours discovered her humiliating secret.

They ate a lunch of neon orange prawn cocktail that looked like something Severus would keep in a jar on one of the shelves in his office, gammon steaks with flaccid pieces of pineapple, and tinned peaches with slightly soured cream for afters. Dudley cried when he saw the desert, wanting the chocolate fudge cake he knew to be in the fridge and wondering why the quality of the food had been so utterly dire (Vernon insisted that Petunia buy only food past its use-by-date for such lowlife company) and so was shepherded away from the dinner table with the promise of a visit to Cadbury’s World the next day and free rein over the television. The conversation revolved mainly around Dudley’s latest achievements. Aged eight he had finally learned to recite the alphabet, and he was nearly halfway able to write it down- stopping at M because it confused him, apparently. He’d also managed to swim a width in the local swimming pool, all of fifteen feet! Petunia announced this tidbit with a tear in her eye at her son’s sporting prowess.

Lily’s pregnancy was ignored. She’d expected no less. She was sure that her heavily pregnant self both mortified and alarmed Petunia, who had once (in an act of extremely drunken sisterly bonding) admitted to Lily that the moment after she knew she was carrying Dudley, she had rushed to Marks and Spencers and upgraded her marital bed for two twins with matching frilly quilts and throw pillows.

It was days like these that always made Lily experience an overwhelming rush of affection for Severus. She watched him, sitting in the uncomfortable mock-Georgian chair- his eyes twitching and his hands folding the linen napkin into a thousand squares. He always finished all the food on his plate, and when Harry began to tire and start playing with his food- that deliberately mischievous look creeping back into his eyes- Snape was there, without hesitation, to give Harry his patented ‘Don’t mess with me’ glare- reserved for awkward social situations when Severus felt unable to simply drag the boy away from the table and pre-empt a public tantrum.

Severus was maintaining a conversation with Vernon about the plethora of reasons why Grunnings drills were superior to Black and Decker at the same time as closely observing Harry. That boy attracted trouble like a magnet did metal- and yet over the past few days Harry had been remarkable reticent. Quiet, even. No tears at bedtime, explosions when he was denied yet another chocolate frog, the boy was positively un-demonic, which in itself was most unusual. However, whilst Severus joked that the boy had the brains of a flobberworm, it was not exactly true. Harry had inherited Lily’s quick thinking. The amount of times that Harry had managed to run rings around his babysitters- Dumbledore was thought by many to be omniscient, the greatest wizard of his age, wasn’t he? Well, Severus’ boy had the man most royally under his thumb- ‘misplacing’ lemon drops all over his office so the man ended up going to visit Poppy to check that his faculties were still entirely there. One might doubt one’s sanity, too, if one was to find one’s favourite confectionary inside one’s chamber pot. Harry would have normally masterminded some sort of chaos by the main course, and here he was sitting with his hands neatly folded on his lap gazing up adoring whilst his Aunt critiqued his so-called stunted growth (anyone would seem petite compared to that ogre in the living room).

Severus had expected Harry to be slightly cold and aloof the morning after his spanking. Admittedly there had been a fair bit of fuss this occasion, it had irked him at the time but thenceforth slipped his mind completely. The boy always took his punishment stoically. However, by the time Severus’ hand had impacted with his backside he was kicking and screaming, carrying on that way until he was red in the face and Severus’ nerves so shattered by child’s hysterics on that he had stop and down a glass of firewhisky. Surely after the ten short spanks that Severus had delivered, the boy’s pride probably hurt more than his behind? Harry’s moping usually went on for a couple of days, which usually coincided with the amount of time Harry remained out of trouble (Severus was sure that one rainy day, the boy had sat down and written a book entitled Ways To Send Ones Parents To St Mungos Before Aged 30- it would certainly explain a few things). This time, however, they had been treated to one morning of petulance and sulking, and then the child had been remarkably… remarkably well tempered and, dare he say it, meek. The sky was going to fall, Dumbledore shave off his beard, why Voldemort was going to appear in Privet Drive wearing a bright pink tea-cosy on his head and waving a white flag of surrender. Either seven and a half was the new mellow forty, or something was up, and a certain someone’s hide was on the line if Severus’ suspicions were true.

Harry was waiting. He’d caught Dudley earlier, on the way back from the toilet, and promised the boy the bar of chocolate he had hidden under his cap when Mummy wasn’t looking. All Dudley had to do was ask his parents if he and Harry might go outside for some fresh air, then Dudley could scoff to his piggy heart’s content, and Harry would begin stage one of his elaborately genius plan (genius to a seven year old).

“Please may I leave the table, Aunt P’tunia?” Harry flashed her his trademark cheeky grin, the one that had the seventh year girls cooing in seconds.

Petunia, halfway through a diatribe on the correlation of working mothers to juvenile delinquent offspring she had formulated with the express purpose of making Lily feel particularly guilty, nodded her bony head and made a sort of strangulated noise in her throat to indicate the affirmative.

“Wicked!” said Harry, trying out the word he heard Charlie use a few days ago. He climbed off the chair- only to have Daddy reach out and tap his nose with a long, white finger.

“You will not use such vulgar language little boy.”

Harry scowled very briefly, and then slipped back into his mask of angelic deception- allowing it drop briefly in order for him to stick his tongue out behind Daddy’s back. He walked into the other room and prodded Dudley’s dozing form awake. He looked at the boy meaningfully, and patted his stomach- mouthing the word ‘chocolate’ for fear of Daddy’s supersonic hearing. Dudley drooled a little, sitting up straight so suddenly that his rolls of fat jolted up and down like a Mexican wave.

“Muuuuuuuuum. I’m going to the park, and he’s coming with me cause I’ll need someone to push me on the swings and carry my bike for me…” Dudley managed to mix a yell and whine together, perfectly. Harry kicked on his trainers and followed Dudley out the door, taking a moment to soak up his Mummy and Daddy’s faces and give them a little wave goodbye. Harry was happy that they hadn’t fussed for him to stay behind, knowing that the park was a mere 200 yards away, and anyways everything was safe round this muggle neighbourhood after all.

“Come on Freak-Face, get my bike seeing as you wanna go to the park. If I don’t get my present soon I’ll scream to my Mummy that you did said the M word and pretend to do freaky things and then your Dad will go mental at you for being naughty…” teased Dudley, utilising his limited vocabulary.

Harry sighed, picked the bike up off the curb and rolled it in the direction of the park, Dudley waddling beside him poking him with a big beefy finger the whole way. The last thing Harry remembered thinking was ‘this better be worth it’ and then everything was spinning out of control, as he was dragged off feet first leaving behind a stunned and chocolate craving Dudley who burst into tears at the injustice of it all.