Harry thought the Snape man could have given him some warning, at least. He was totally unprepared for the way the fireplace grabbed him and spun him around like a trailer in a tornado. He knew no better than to open his mouth and call for help, only to find himself practically choking to death when thick ash coated his throat.

It was a blessed relief to feel cool air on his face, but Harry couldn't catch himself in time to avoid stumbling onto the rough stones of the hearth. The duffel bag went flying out into the room, landing on its side in a shower of dirt and grime. Harry tried to get up, but his head spun madly, so he stayed on his hands and knees, taking big gulps of air and trying not to throw up.

Suddenly, something slammed into him from behind with enough force that Harry went sprawling over onto the hardwood floor, bumping his head slightly. His hands scraped the stones first, and Harry's eyes smarted with tears.

"Stupid boy," came that man's voice from behind him. Harry felt his shirt tightening around his chest as the man grabbed a handful of it right at his back, digging in his fingernails. Harry yelped in protest as he was bodily hauled to his feet and shaken. "Don't you have enough sense to get out of the way?" Snape hissed at him.

"I was . . . I couldn't stand up," Harry protested weakly. His hands burned, his head throbbed, and he could feel where Snape's fingers had pinched his back. Snape let go, driving him back a bit in doing so. Harry straightened his sweatshirt, pressing his aching palms against it. His guardian's face was twisted in anger, so Harry looked away, focusing on the room they were in. It was a very dark parlour . . . the shades were down, but really, Harry saw that the room itself was dark. Dark paneling, dark mahogany furniture with dark upholstery. Dark shades, even. Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust.

"Not exactly Buckingham Palace, but then I don't bring home what your uncle undoubtedly does," Snape said bitterly. Harry flushed; he hadn't meant to make the man feel that way.

"I could clean it up for you," he offered, but received only a glare for his efforts.

"If you can hold your water a little longer, I'll have my servant do it," Snape contradicted him. "I do hope we can move fast enough for you."

"That's not what I meant," Harry protested, but Snape wasn't interested.

"Can't you just be quiet?" he asked in a frustrated tone. Harry fell silent, and Snape headed for the hallway, impatiently beckoning him to follow. "I'll be making us our tea while Noddy gets your bedroom ready. I want you out of both our ways until we eat. Do you like to read?" he asked, stopping suddenly next to a closed door.

"Erm . . . yes, sir," Harry answered. It wasn't a lie, exactly. He didn't hate to read, and sometimes it was fun, if he had the right kind of book. But he didn't have his nose buried in one all the time like Carly Welles at school did. He wondered who Noddy was; probably the servant, unless Snape was being sarcastic about that.

Snape opened the door, and Harry was impressed to see a library full of leather-bound books. Like the parlour, it was dark and dusty, but there was a comfortable-looking sofa near the dormant fireplace. Snape walked over to the window and pulled the heavy curtains aside, flooding the room with sunshine. "Find a book you like and sit quietly until I call you for tea, then," he ordered Harry.

"Yes, sir." After Harry was fully in the room, he heard Snape close the door behind him. He stared all around him, wondering what kinds of books Snape had. He wandered over to one of the shelves and began scanning for something that looked interesting. Some were boring, with titles he didn't even understand. Others looked like they might crumble if he picked them up. Finally, he selected one called The Tales of Beedle the Bard and looked dubiously at the sofa. It looked comfortable, yes, but also very dusty. Well, a little dust never hurt anyone. Harry gingerly climbed up onto the cushions and snuggled back against the arm, opening his book to a story called Babbity Rabbity and Her Cackling Stump. Soon, he forgot where he was and why he was there, and it was a full hour and a half later before he came to the last page of the last tale.

Harry left the clutches of the story like a diver surfacing from the deep sea. He stretched and yawned, noting that the light had changed considerably; it must be near sunset. Harry was just wondering if he should choose another book when he heard footsteps in the hall. The door flew open to reveal his guardian, whom Harry had begun to think of in his mind as Death from the story The Tale of the Three Brothers.

"Tea, Potter," Snape drawled. Harry nodded and slid off the sofa, still clutching the book. Snape's eyes narrowed. "For Merlin's sake, you're filthy!" he exclaimed impatiently. Harry cringed a bit as the man advanced on him, and he looked down at his clothes. Quite a bit of dust had rubbed off on them; he couldn't deny that. But they were Dudley's old hand-me-downs and full of holes anyway. It wasn't like he'd ruined a sport shirt and trousers.

Snape turned him around and began roughly brushing the dust off him. "Why didn't you just sit in the fireplace, if it came to this? Only you could get filthy as a pig reading a book indoors!" he complained.

"Where was I supposed to sit?" Harry cried in frustration. "You told me to find something to read and not bother you, and I did! Was I supposed to stand the whole time?" This man was as unreasonable as his aunt and uncle . . . but a little scarier.

Snape glowered at him, but all he said was, "Watch your attitude, young man. I am amazed that you could at least keep quiet for as long as you did." He turned and strode toward the door. "Come for tea."

Harry sighed and followed Snape to the small kitchen. Someone had been at work cleaning it, obviously, as it didn't have the same neglected look as the rest of the house. The table was set for two, with an ancient-looking teapot and cups in the center. A smaller plate at each place held two slices of dark brown bread. Harry looked sideways at Snape, wondering which place was his.

"Sit by the window, Potter," Snape ordered, reaching into an old-fashioned icebox and pulling out a bottle of milk. Harry obeyed, looking around for the other kitchen appliances. Aunt Petunia had a microwave, dishwasher, food processor, and trash compacter. The basin here was the old freestanding kind, so Harry could see that there was no disposal, and all the counters were bare. Strangest of all was the fact that although the milk bottle had a slight frosty film over it from the cold of the icebox, Harry could not hear the appliance running.

Snape sat opposite him and poured himself a cup of tea, then one for Harry. When Harry saw him take a piece of bread, he tentatively reached for his own. He was very hungry; all Mrs. Figg had made for his lunch was a chicken sandwich, as she'd been distracted writing a letter to someone about the death of Harry's relatives. Harry now wondered if the letter had been to the Snape man, and if so, how it had gotten to him so quickly. Then again, anyone who could travel by fireplace had to be able to send letters faster than the usual post.

The door from what he assumed was the pantry opened, and Harry's jaw dropped when the oddest creature he had ever seen walked into the room bearing two steaming bowls of soup. It looked a lot like the gnome that Aunt Petunia had bought for the garden — very short, maybe two feet high, but with long, floppy ears. Harry stared as it placed the soup in front of him and Snape.

"This is Noddy, my house-elf," Snape made introductions. "And this is Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived," he finished with a slight edge to his voice. Noddy had eyes as big as tennis balls, and they held Harry's gaze so steadily that he was rather unnerved.

"Erm, hello," he said, holding out his hand hesitantly. Noddy looked at the hand the way he might look at a square egg or something equally aberrant, but didn't take it.

"Is Master wanting anything else?" he addressed Snape.

"That will be all, Noddy," Snape dismissed the elf. Noddy gave a little bow and went back into the pantry.

Harry picked up his spoon and stirred the soup. He never liked to eat it until it had cooled a bit, in case he burned his tongue and had to feel the soreness in his mouth for several days. He took the remaining piece of bread and dipped it into the soup, tasting it that way. It was a bit bland; he reckoned the Snape man didn't cook much for himself. He wasn't wearing a wedding ring, and probably ate at school like Harry's teachers did.

"Erm . . . sir?" Harry asked tentatively.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd eat and not talk, Potter," Snape answered him. After a moment, though, he sighed. "What is it?"

"Well . . . I was hoping you could tell me about my mum."

Was it Harry's imagination, or did the man's face soften one tiny bit? "What about her?"

"Everything!" Harry said eagerly. "Aunt Petunia never would tell me anything about her or my dad. Just that they d — but you said they didn't die in a car crash. So what happened? And what did they look like? Where did —"

"One at a time, please."

"Right, well . . . you said my mum could do magic."

Snape looked at Harry oddly, as if he couldn't figure him out. "Are you being deliberately foolish, Potter, or do you mean to tell me that your aunt never said anything as to that?"

"I told you, sir; she never would talk about my parents. Except, well, sometimes when she was cross, she or my uncle, they'd say I should have died with them." Snape's mouth tightened a bit. "In the car, that is."

There was a pause while Snape lifted his teacup and took a long draught. He twisted the cup in his hands for a moment and looked as though he were deep in thought. Finally, he began with, "Well, I suppose it's no real surprise. I knew your aunt when we were children, and she never did like magic. Not many do who haven't the ability, when it comes to that." He smirked. "Some children are born with magical powers, Potter. Your mother was, your father was," — at the mention of Harry's father, Snape's expression darkened — "and you were."

"I'm magic?" Harry whispered.

"Indeed. You are a wizard. Come, surely you must have known you were different from the other children."

Harry thought about it as he played with his soup. Of course he was different — he had always wondered why he did such odd things. Shrinking that sweater of Dudley's, and the time his hair grew back overnight. Finding himself on the roof that day Dudley was chasing him . . .

"So why did I always get in trouble for things?" Harry asked, suddenly frustrated. "If Aunt Petunia knew I was magic, why did she act like I could have helped it?"

Snape sighed. "I don't know what 'things' you're referring to, Potter; perhaps you deserved to get in trouble. But often, non-magical parents or guardians don't understand magic well enough to realise that children often can't help sudden outbursts."

"I never did those things on purpose," Harry murmured.

"Usually it happens when you're particularly distressed or angry," Snape answered him. "It's expected when you're young. After you get your wand and leave for Hogwarts, however, you'll be held accountable for uncontrolled magic."

"What's Hogwarts?" Harry wanted to know. What a funny name . . .

Snape rolled his eyes, and Harry wished he hadn't asked. "Sorry," he muttered. His aunt and uncle hated questions, too.

His guardian gave him an appraising look. "Well, you would ask," he finally said. "Hogwarts is the school for young witches and wizards. It's where you'll go when you'd normally head for secondary school." He took another sip of tea. "I teach Potions there."

"What kinds of potions do you make?" Harry asked excitedly. He was thinking of Dudley's chemistry set, which made more in the way of foul smells than anything else but still looked like fun.

"There are many kinds," Snape rejoined, and Harry could see that he enjoyed the subject. "Some are medicinal, like the Blood-Replenishing Potion; others are used for disguise and deception, like Polyjuice; there are even potions for sleep or to calm anxiety." He scowled. "Students often don't appreciate how much work and skill go into the preparation of brews. They assume that because they don't get to wave their wands around and chant spells, the subject has no merit."

Harry was intrigued by Snape's explanation, but thought that if he was as short with his students as he was with Harry, it was no surprise that they didn't like the class. He shuddered at the thought of being taught by such a man — would anything ever be done well enough for Snape?

"Now is a good time to explain a few things about your stay here," Snape interrupted his thoughts. "I still have to finish out the year teaching, so on the weekdays, starting tomorrow, I'll be leaving after an early breakfast and won't be back until four or four-thirty. I may have taken you out of school, but you won't be idling away the rest of the term, nor the summer, at that. I'll have books for you when I get home tomorrow, and will set some lessons for you to finish every day."

"Can you teach me Potions?" Harry asked eagerly.

Snape considered this for a moment. "Perhaps when the term is over, you may watch me as I brew this summer, if you keep quiet and don't interfere. I suppose it's never too early for you to learn, and I certainly don't want you to end up like one of those insufferable first years that melt their cauldrons because they have absolutely no idea what they're doing.

"As to right now," Snape continued, "Noddy is not a slave. He'll use magic to give the house its first cleaning, but you'll have regular chores afterward. For one thing, you'll be responsible for your own room and bathroom. And I believe I'll put you in charge of the library, as well. Make sure no books are left out, and dust everything regularly. You're not going to play all day, every day, as you undoubtedly did at your aunt and uncle's. I may have little choice in caring for you, but if you're going to remain here, I expect you to do your share."

"How do you know what I did at their house? I had plenty of chores!" Harry exclaimed.

"Did those mean people have you making your own bed, Potter?" Snape asked him mockingly. "Merlin, how did you stand such abuse?"

Harry's eyes smarted. He knew better than to answer back; Snape obviously didn't want to listen to him. So he kept silent, miserably stirring his soup. He wasn't hungry anymore.

"It appears our food isn't good enough for the famous Boy Who Lived," Snape sneered. Harry jumped as the man grabbed his bowl from in front of him and slammed it into the sink. His heart was pounding, wondering if Snape would shout again. "I'll show you where you'll be sleeping, and I want you to wash up and go to bed. That can't be too much to ask." Harry followed him upstairs, his ears hot and his stomach churning. This man obviously couldn't stand him, but Harry didn't know what he could say to make things better.

Snape opened a door near the end of the hall, and Harry followed him into a large room. It was as dark as the downstairs, but it had a big bed, a wardrobe, and a bureau, plus a large, soft chair in the corner. Like the kitchen, everything was clean. Snape watched as Harry hesitated in the doorway. "Unpack your things and put that bag in the closet," he ordered.

As Snape went past him to get out the door, Harry looked at him in amazement. "I get the whole room to myself?" he asked.

Snape rounded on him, frightening Harry enough that he took a step back. "I don't find your sarcasm one bit funny," he snapped angrily.

"I — " Harry began, but he was cut off.

"Just go to bed, Potter." Snape slammed the door, and Harry heard his angry footsteps clicking on down the hall.

Harry slowly unpacked his few clothes; they all fit in one drawer of the bureau. He pulled off his shoes and placed them neatly in the closet. The duffel bag he stowed on the shelf in the wardrobe, a huge monstrosity like he'd always imagined the one that led to Narnia looked like. But of course, when he reached out, his fingers scraped solid wood right away.

There was an extra door, which puzzled him — opening it, Harry saw a little bathroom that had also been meticulously scrubbed. The tub stood on clawed feet, and the shower head rose straight from the floor; the shower curtain was attached to a ring that hung from the ceiling. He couldn't believe that he actually had his own bathroom and wouldn't have to share with Dudley anymore. While Harry was usually the first one up, Dudley raised such a fuss if he didn't get first shot at the hot water that Harry had to take his shower second. His cold shower, usually.

Harry took his toothbrush, toothpaste, and comb into the bathroom, setting them on the small vanity. The mirror was too high for him to reach without standing on a little wooden stool that stowed under the sink. Harry brushed his teeth and washed his face — he had a stack of clean towels, and if the Snape man hadn't sounded as if he hated Harry more than the Dursleys, even, Harry would have felt totally content.

Well, it must have been hard for Snape to suddenly get handed a seven-year-old, after all, Harry reasoned as he changed into Dudley's old shirt and sweats that he used as pyjamas. He reckoned the Dursleys had felt the same — he only wished they had been just a little kinder. It wasn't the huge amount of chores or watching Dudley eat up all the sweets. It wasn't even the way Dudley got masses of new toys and all Harry got for holidays were Dudley's hand-me-down clothes. It was how they loathed his presence and always made him feel that he was really horrid and worthless. No one, in his memory, had ever hugged him or said they loved him. Not once.

The bed was very high, and Harry had to climb up the rungs of the footboard to get into it. He hoped he wouldn't fall out in his sleep — he'd probably break something if he did. The sheets were old but clean, and Harry sighed with pleasure, stretching his arms and legs out as far as they could go. Even Dudley's bed wasn't this big, and while the mattress was kind of hard, it was like sleeping on clouds after the floor of his cupboard. Harry relished being able to turn over without hitting the walls or the cupboard door.

Maybe Snape was just tired, or snappish because he had to go back to work tomorrow. Uncle Vernon was usually at his worst on Sunday nights . . . well, so was Dudley, when it came to that. Harry really didn't care what day it was; school wasn't much better or worse than Privet Drive for him. Only Aunt Petunia seemed to look forward to Monday, when she had peace and quiet for almost seven hours while Harry and Dudley were at school. Well, tomorrow he could explore the house . . . and the garden, too. Or find a book to read. It would be pleasant to have the house to himself, even with Noddy there. Harry curled into a fetal position, tucking his hands between his knees, and drifted off to sleep.