"Severus."

A silence. Then: "Yes, m’lord?"

"Hadrian Potter will be attending Hogwarts this year."

The shorter of the two men—although both were tall—paused momentarily. The hesitation in his stride was so slight that only one as trained as his companion in reading body language would have seen it.

"You wish me to explain how Hadrian Potter is alive." The taller man phrased it as a statement, brushing back the overgrown grass from a grave as he did so.

"Please, my lord."

The faint smile of one too grossly satisfied with himself distorted the features of the tall man’s otherwise handsome face. His pale hands spidered in pleasure over a tombstone’s lettering as he spoke.

"On the Samhain of 1984, Lily and James Potter left their son Hadrian with their secret-keeper, Peter Pettigrew, for the night while attending a meeting with the Order."

Severus did not acknowledge this. Generally his companion needed little to no encouragement in self-aggrandizing speeches. Generally his companion was too wrapped up in self-aggrandizing speeches to notice when his listeners’ attention wavered—unless, like Goyle, you were prone to flatulence after falling asleep. In which case listening skills would be reinforced with some unpleasant pinching hex.

Contrary to popular belief, the Dark Lord rarely used the Cruciatus, even for such major infractions as missing ‘Bowling for Muggles’. It took too much power and gave him a headache—and Severus had yet to learn how to brew a Headache Relief potion that was cherry-flavoured.

Of course, dark wizards were above such petty concerns as potion flavouring.

Certainly. And if Malfoy returned another Pepper-Up Potion again asking for banana flavouring, his restraint would be hardpressed to not point this out.

Yet some of this information was new, and Severus schooled his face out from a grimace and ignored the braggadocio of his master’s tone.

"Hadrian Potter and Neville Longbottom both matched the specifics for the prophecy you told me of. I sent Lestrange’s team after Longbottom, while I left personally for Potter. Pettigrew, their secret-keeper, had promised to hand him over to me without a fight. What I had not expected—they left Sirius Black with Pettigrew.

"With Black around, Pettigrew had a change of heart. I slaughtered them both, of course," the man smiled, and even Severus, though impatient for new information, echoed his expression, "but I decided to take a look at the boy’s aura before I killed him."

Severus averted his gaze to the gravesite the man had cleared to hide his curiosity. Aural readings? Unless you were charging against a magically shielded area, or trying to reveal a suspect’s identity—who would waste energy reading an aura? They changed constantly, and more often mapped potentials than personalities.

Unless your soul was branded with an ineffaceable mark, that patterned your magic and character into a certain mold, there were few ways of telling any given aura from another. Infants, with unlimited choices before them, were indistinguishable.

Or almost. Power potentials might show at a year, vague biases in fate towards one magic or another.

Extremely vague biases.

Severus risked the question. "Why did you look at his aura?"

"His great-grandfather, Charles Potter, was a worthy opponent and nearly revealed me to the ministry at a time when all of them, save Dumbledore, were snivelling at my feet." The man paused, green eyes glinting. "He almost killed me in a training duel. Using parselmagic".

"The Potters weren’t Parselmouths"

"Never. But Charles messed with illegal transformations, same as the whole clan." His lips quirked in rare humour. "For a light family, they were marvellously uninhibited. Charles’ skills rivalled mine. He was obsessed with changing his own line, heightening their magic, preserving ritually acquired skills from generation to generation—lengthening their lives, if possible. I have his notebooks. I’d to apply his methods, but I wanted to ensure their success beforehand. And unfortunately," a sad, sad smile, "I often am too focused on dispatching his descendents to read them."

"But you did with Hadrian Potter," Severus noted, withdrawing a jar from his robes and unscrewing the lid.

"I did. And none—or very few—of Charles’ experiments took. Negligible changes to lifespan. None of that veela-like attraction I’d always suspected in his father—"

Severus sneered in disdain.

"—or any of the nonhuman characteristics he’d hoped to import. Nothing, really, except animagus potential and parseltongue—and curiously, a very volatile aura."

"Common enough in teenagers, since their emotions and powers flare on a daily basis, though unusual in infants. For a prophesied child though, acceptable. Why didn’t you kill him?"

"He had a Black aura."

Severus’ brows raised in surprise. "A penchant for the Dark Arts then. Well, his mother isn’t clean either—I read her aura once when we were schoolchildren. Black and healer’s Green, with orange flaring the edges. Doesn’t mean he’ll be a dark wizard."

"With the proper schooling, he will be. Which is where you come in."

Severus stopped, unspeaking, though he was displeased. Though as far as his companion was concerned, Severus could keep on being displeased. While the younger man might be his intellectual equal, and morally complicated enough to keep him on his toes—Severus would turn traitor, if he hadn’t already—he gave the orders. Severus occasionally needed a reminder of this.

And Cruciatus was such a jejune means of asserting one’s authority. Really, a Dark Lord needed to be more inventive.

"I’ve never set much stock in divination. I marked the boy—ran up the odds. An inclination for dark magic, ambition, a temper, a skill for keeping silent—much like an usual christening present, but I added another gift—bound him with my blood."

"A vassal’s spell?"

"A variant. The Bastard’s spell. Used for claiming the child of another man as your own. Convenient with all those intrigues in the middle ages. As it doesn’t erase the natural father and simply gives the adoptive father a claim to the boy as well, it was a useful kind of insurance for a medieval witch to take. In this case, though, it gives me another prospect to spy on the Order’s general. Potter will accept his son and mine with open arms, the Light will rejoice that the child that drove off Voldemort for eleven years has returned." The man snorted. "Never mind that it was the duel with Black that depleted my powers. The auror analysts say one thing, the people say another, and the media confirms what the people already believe."

"Where is Hadrian Potter?" Severus questioned.

"At the moment, I haven’t the slightest clue." The older man sank from his crouch by the gravestone into a sitting position, twirling his wand thoughtlessly to raise the ground before the the stone, sifting the silt to remove a yellowed bit of bone. "I drew a liberal amount of blood from him to add to the scene, blew some things up, dosed the brat my own blood to replenish him, and called up the awful Children’s Services. I’d prefer he learnt exactly how muggles act firsthand. Added a few wards to make him untraceable by most magical means and some powerful notice-me-nots. Not even Dumbledore could find him now... of course, Dumbledore would still be searching for James Potters’ son. Hadrian Potter should be somewhere with Lily’s estranged sister, Petunia Evans—whose normal distaste of witches and wizards, coupled with my spells, should ensure Hadrian goes unnoticed."

"Even a squib would notice his surname."

"Squibs have residual magic that the Notice-me-not detects. Unless Dumbledore has finally learnt how to access a muggle database without blowing up the computer—which I assure you, he has not—he’s safely disregarded."

Severus handed his master the jar, which the youthful old man slipped the bone into, before shutting it tight and handing it back.

"My lord, what do you require of me in this?"

His master regarded him before answering.

"Conduct his orientation. My informing you of this has broken the Notice-me-not, the attendants will become aware of his enrollment at Hogwarts shortly. If possible, initiate him into the wizarding world yourself. Make sure the right books fall into his hands." The older man paused, a old distaste grooving the corners of his mouth into a frown. "Make sure you teach him how to defend himself. I was altogether certain his guardians would be... unready to take him on, and prepared to take it out on him. Growing up like that can toughen a boy if it doesn’t break him, teach him how muggles normally act."

"Yes master."

"The jar has the basic components of a tracking charm—bones from his primary bloodlines. Assuming the Notice spells take time to distingrate, use them to find him. Otherwise," Voldemort’s gaze was piercing, "return them."

Or else the jar will implode and burn the bones to ash if you try to use them for any other purpose, like thaumaturgy, against your master. Or it will suck you inside and turn into a miniature snow globe. Or any other of many unpleasant possibilities.

"Yes, master."

"Good." Voldemort nodded curtly, and rose, dusting off his long grey robes. "Now, go."

He watched his servant apparate, and then, breathing deeply, closed his eyes.

mmmmmmmmmm

Somewhere in Little Whinging, Surrey, a pair of identical green eyes opened.

It wasn’t at Number Four, Privet Drive.

More’s the pity for a particular horse-faced woman. Having ordered her beached whale of a son to fetch the mail for four times with no success, she had to leave her sentry point at the kitchen window (overlooking the neighbour’s vegetable garden, where said neighbour was industriously picking weeds and displaying an abnormally attractive plumber’s crack) to get it herself.

Bills, bills, offer for facelift (she set this aside thoughtlessly), renewal query from Penthouse (she’d lash her husband tonight once her son was in bed), bills—and—what’s this?

Parchment. Her lips parted in startled odium before she recovered, shredded the missive and sent it to the greenbox.

The recipient of the letter was meanwhile happily oblivious as to its fate, cloistered in the sauna room at the back of the local gym, reading a random math text. The denizens of Surrey were all too importantly busy to use the gym (hence their formidable girths), and the boy himself had no intention of using the exercise equipment. Most eleven-year-old boys are strangely disinterested getting buff, and this kid was similar to them in that respect. He was, however, unlike them in that he was failing summer school, and having had an unusual spurt of motivation (possibly due to his teacher’s threat to hold him back a grade, which would mean staying back from boarding school another year), he’d immured himself in the sauna. The neatly lettered sign "Out of Order" hung on the door to discourage any oddballs who did go to the gym.

The clean, cool room—for the sauna didn’t steam unless you turned a switch—had become an unusual sanctuary for him this summer. If he got up before his relatives and scarpered, he could have the whole day to himself. So long as he didn’t take any food, they couldn’t care where he went. Shoplifting candy bars for breakfast or digging into the crates destined for the grocery store before they were opened, he managed to get all the time he needed to work out the pesky sums and avoid his relations.

However… glancing at the perky Donald Duck clock on the side… it seemed that his free time was at an end. The crazy old cat lady across the road would want him until sundown to clean her house, and she paid well for it.

Harry Potter left, untacking the Out of Order sign from his sauna as he did so.

mmmmmmmmmm

When more letters arrived the next day in the eggs, Petunia Dursley—for, as none of us could guess, that was the horse-faced woman’s name—said nothing. Neither did her husband Vernon. Perhaps he cuffed his nephew a little harder when the miscreant came home late from loitering on the corner with the local punks—layabout just like his father! Well, he reckoned a little honest work wouldn’t hurt him—and laid down curfew while explaining that Harry would go to Grunnings Drill Company with him in the morning. He could at least sweep the floor and clean the restrooms. That’d help pay for his room and board.

Vernon gagged down some whiskey and went to sleep.

Harry, who had done the job before to the heckling of the fat millwrights and half-joking propositions of the more perverted men by the urinals, had no intention of going back there. He upped and left in the middle of the night, dodging the hobos in the park and broke into Sully’s treehouse. Sully wouldn’t mind. The teenage boy traded grub with Harry in exchange for help with breaking into the liquor store. Wiry little Harry could snick open any lock and squirm through any window. He was a well-paid accomplice.

mmmmmmmmmm

When Harry was busy at summer school the next day, a whole bag of letters downed through the chimney, like a sack from Santa Claus. Dudley, his cousin, began to cry about the freakishness of it all. Petunia began to seriously consider taking a trip to Majorca. Vernon, who missed work due to a hangover, was too busy dry-heaving and swearing out his worthless nephew for not being present to fetch his mineral water to care.

Wisely, Harry avoided going home that night. After seeing the crates of empties by the roadside—honestly, was Uncle Vernon too lazy to even try collecting them for a discount at the beer store—he figured he’d better stay away. Though he did tell Sully, and a few quiet teens fetched away the bottles after dark. Petunia went to a friend’s house for the evening. Dudley, who she’d been thoughtless enough to leave behind, became Vernon’s whipping boy for once.

Boy, was Harry ever going to get it when he got home.

mmmmmmmmmm

By now, the living room was plastered in letters. Vernon knew better than to call the cops, it was all his freakish wife’s freakish sister’s fault. He would take it out on his nephew, except his nephew was no where to be found. Neither was his wife, for that matter. And Dudley, whose animal sense of self preservation overrode his intellect to make him unusually intelligent for a change, was hiding at Piers’ place. So when he upped and left for the Orkney’s, boarding up the house, he really left nothing behind—except a bankrupt business and another case of empties.

mmmmmmmmmm

July 31st. Harry was sitting in the treehouse, huddled up to Sully and the boys, who were offering him a swig of beer and his first cigarette for his birthday. He’d declined the beer—watching Vernon made him wary of alcohol—but accepted the cigarette with a tacky sophistication not altogether inappropriate for an eleven-year-old bandit. Swilling in smoke with an ease that first-timers (eyes tearing, lungs burning) often lacked, he blew perfect rings to the applause of his cronies. They often tried to get them just like that, but they never could. You had to be a conjuror, a kind of Houdini like Harry to make perfect rings, they decided.

Harry grinned. Normally you had to brag for yourself, but their kind of magnanimity was acceptable on birthdays, or after the boys had a few shots down. They passed around the twinkies, found they’d brought a lighter but forgot the candles, and skinheaded Jules—who was a bit of a pervert, but Harry got on with him alright, so long as Sully was around—lit the lighter for Harry to blow out.

10…9… 8…

A scuffling sound at the foot of the ladder stopped the boys. Jules removed his thumb from the lighter, the torches went out.

Probably Mom, Sully mouthed in the almost-dark of the full moon.

Harry shook his head. Too heavy.

Who else would be out here? Hopefully not the older guys… they’d crashed one of Sully’s parties before, in ski masks, and forced the younger guys to humiliate themselves in a number of unspeakable ways that Harry intended to avoid. He could try getting up through the top and hiding in the higher branches—he’d done that before, but he’d been lighter. And it hadn’t been for a long period of time.

Nope, best to check out who it was—

Sully had come to the same conclusion. The boys grabbed the blanket. Harry fetched Jules’ abandoned lighter, and, at Sully’s gesture, scrabbled onto the roof to see who was climbing.

A lanky man shrouded in black… big, built in the shoulders, still, nothing the four of them couldn’t take. He stuck his head back in with an affirmative gesture, and scrabbled off the roof and into the side window—just as the man shoved his ugly head in, and the boys threw the blanket over his head.

"Auugg—oummph!" Egor, the third guy huffed as the man’s right hook drove the wind out of him, knocking him back against the wall. Dazed, he shook his head before scrabbling back into the thick of it as Sully squirmed out from a choke and tried to pin the man’s arms against his body. Harry flashed in as Jules felt at the man’s belt for a gun, getting kicked against the window as Egor came to replace him.

"Enough!" the man growled, and the boys flew backwards, Sully stopping short of flying out the door and down two stories to the ground. The blanket whipped back from the man’s bedraggled head—just in time for Harry to chuck the bottle of alcohol and a bit of flaming newspaper at the trespasser’s head. The man dodged, the bottle flew outside and the newspaper, by some gracious magic, snuffed itself. Squirming aside the man’s attack while Jules attempted again to pin the man’s arm—the guy was groping down his pocket for something, some long thing that could be a box cutter, a switchblade—Harry tried to think.

Newspaper, fabric, anything flammable—beer’s got too much water, doesn’t it? Hell, why not.

He snapped his fingers and closing his eyes, saw struck flint, pages angered scarlet with flame, logs wormed with campfire—crimson-winged and azure at the heart.

Fuego, ventifuego, burn, burn!

The man’s hand came free, Jules snapped to the side, and Houdini Harry drew scarves of flame from the air, dodging under the man’s grasping arm and dashing out the open door… two stories to the ground.

Harry landed, somersaulting only to see the man mysteriously unburned and looking grim as the devil himself. Crap. There went a year and half of practice. Who the hell said education pays?

Harry did the logical thing. Harry ran.

Some prickling sixth sense told him to duck, and he dashed behind Sully’s trash bin when a needle of white light flared into it. Guns.

Here, Harry thought some words that little boys, of course, never use since they aren’t supposed to know them. And waited, taking the trashbin lid in hand as he did so. The man ran closer.

Fuego, fuego, fuego!

The fire snapped off in the man’s face, followed by the trash lid. Temporarily blinded, the guy had an uncanny sense of where to shoot, and Harry had barely scrabbled over the fence before getting brained with something. He fell sideways, bonking his head against the asphalt on the way down. The man somehow passed through the gate, looking a little singed on the edges and hard-broiled at the eyes.

Harry, if he could have moved, might have gulped. But he seemed paralyzed for fear, which was strange, since he wasn’t afraid, and remained prone on the asphalt. Though if he could have moved, he also might have grinned at seeing the silhouettes creeping up behind the large man.

Without even turning around, the man froze the boys in place, looking even grimmer, if possible, and set him upright.

Movement was impossible. This was freaky stuff—the kind of hard-core stuff he could do sometimes, if he really wanted to—but not so often. A few flares, an open window, a little light. Kid stuff, he knew now.

Cause he was dead tired from pulling all the tricks he knew, and this guy kept coming.

The man paused, clamping a hand cold as the dead on his shoulder, and shook his head. Then, Harry must have blacked out, because he didn’t remember anything after that.

mmmmmmmmmm

Severus shook his head.

Only a son of Voldemort, James Potter and the infuriatingly clever Lily Evans could possibly have pulled what this brat just did.

mmmmmmmmmm

He awoke with a feeling much similar to what he imagined a hangover would feel like. He was in a bed, and raising his head, he could see he was fully dressed. Good. So it might not be some pervert who’d abducted him then. Well, he’d get out of here in either case. He tried to raise his back next, and found, to his annoyance, his shoulders were stuck.

The man came from where he’d stood by the large, dusty window back across the worn floorboards to where the boy struggled. With good timing. The kid ignited the bedsheets.

The guy snuffed the fire again, and the kid lay panting, glaring up at him with a face reminiscent enough of Potter’s to make him want to laugh—and with enough of Voldemort around the eyes to make him almost awkward.

"Quit it. You’ll waste your energy that way."

The kid remained silent, glaring up at him.

"I’m not going to hurt you."

The suspicion remained, and Severus could almost hear the long, sarcastic "Surrrreee" burring its way from a boy on Spinner’s End.

"No, really. You’ve been abducted because you’re—" The mysterious Hadrian Potter who was somehow mistakenly handed off to the Muggle’s Children’s Services, who came with the fire department on the scene of the crime before the Ministry of Magic arrived. And somehow, we didn’t check with the Muggle police before resigning Potter for dead. Right. Who the hell was going to buy that? Lily Potter’s hair was already in flames from bawling out the bureaucracy. Rather nifty trick that, one the Weasley matron had taught the young mothers in some seminar on "Raising Wizards without Losing Your Head" after silly Olive Perkins splinched hers in an attempt to buzz off to Madagascar—away from her three brats whose pleasure in pyrotechnics had unfortunately extended into adolescence. Really, he’d almost thought he’d seen the detention record to end all detention records from them… until the Weasley twins themselves came, and the reason for Molly Weasley’s expertise became apparent.

"Hadrian Potter. Because of some error we haven’t sorted out yet," which no one, especially Dumbledore, believes an accident, "you were placed with your aunt and uncle" and your parents mysteriously never checked in with them "after your guardians were killed and the house you lived in at the time burnt down. Your parents, Lily and James Potter, are still alive. James Potter will be arriving shortly to take you to your proper home." And I’ll be getting out of here to give my report, and hopefully won’t be stuck on dungeon duty for the next week for my failure to obtain more information. Really though, what more could Voldemort expect of him? The day James Potter allows me to give his son an orientation on the wizarding world will be the day both sides in this infernal war burn us for Midsummer wickermen, and toast marshmallows on our pyres.

"It’s Harry," the boy corrected. "And like I believe that."

The kid eyed him over, apparently decided resistance was futile, and settled back down again.

"My parents were drug addicts and died in a car crash," he muttered.

A laugh from the severe man surprised him.

"Drug addicts. Petunia was always inventive."

"You knew my aunt."

"Unfortunately, yes, I had the displeasure of her acquaintance. Your mother and I knew each other as children, and your aunt occasionally disgraced us with her presence," the man’s lip curled.

"Oh," was all Harry could think to say to this jarring critique. Most mature adults don’t criticize their ... peers before adolescents. Of course, Severus, with his boyhood grudges and sense of self-importance as a spy, could only be considered as mature as the man now knocking at the door of the old room.

Severus waved a hand. "Come in."

A grey-robed man entered, and anyone could see this was exactly what the boy would look like in fifteen years or so. Anyone, that is, except for Severus, who would have pointed out the gauntness in the boy’s limbs wasn’t just malnutrition, that he’d be considerably taller and lankier than his father, his face a tad more angular, his fingers long and knob-knuckled not unlike another wizard Severus knew.

Voldemort really had chosen Harry.

"Severus," the man began, then his glance caught the boy on the bed, and he forgot.

"Harry?"

As the esteemed readers might guess: The Slytherinish Harry was duly wary, and said "Who the hell are you? Dad’s dead."

"Harry, I’m—"

The boy relaxed, more because there was no other response available—and Severus saw the flame sputtered out at his hand as he conjured it. No more wandless magic. Even this little prodigy had to be burnt out after last night. "Explain, please." His eyes turned to Severus. "And please take this binding off me."

"Give me your oath you won’t run off."

Harry sighed extravagantly, as angsty little adolescents will, and resigned himself. "Fine. I won’t run off while you’re explaining things."

"Or afterwards," Severus glared as James Potter opened his mouth.

"Or right after you’re done," Harry hesitated.

Clever brat. Left himself a loophole—not RIGHT after we’re done, though it’s all in relative terms... but hopefully he’ll be satisfied by then, and if not, it’s not going to deplete me to keep petrifying him. "Fine. Finite Incantatem" Severus agreed easily, glancing to the other man. "Potter?"

Potter glanced uneasily at Severus, and back to his son. "Maybe you could go outside while we talk?"

"I promised Dumbledore" and Voldemort "personally that I would supervise you and the boy this afternoon. Dumbledore" rightly "believes Voldemort wants the boy for some purpose unknown as of yet and was involved with his original disappearance. I’m your guard for this afternoon."

James Potter could not be dismayed at this—he’d just found his firstborn son!—but all the same, couldn’t Dumbledore just assign another auror!

"Another auror would not have the same expertise as a reformed Death Eater in predicting how Voldemort might attack, General."

James shot a look at Severus, and Severus shrugged. Why use occlumency when it was so darn easy to guess what the man thought?

James Potter turned back to Harry. "So," he began, uneasily...

mmmmmmmmmm

mmmmmmmmmm

James Potter and Harry started down the street, with Severus trailing discreetly behind them and stopping every few strides to adjust his robes or sample the sugared beets pawned by a vendor.

"So," James began, "what do you do for fun?"

Harry shrugged. He doubted James really wanted to hear about his entrepreneurial pursuits, ‘specially as his old man turned out to be in law enforcement. "Hang out with the guys, I guess." He thought for a moment, and gave a wicked little grin. "Give magic shows to the kids on the block."

Now that, Harry really could do. His illicit sideshow accompanied every circus or carnaval in town. He’d spat fire, unlocked doors, juggled balls and vanished ten pound notes each year since he was seven, ending the act with a disappearance from outraged patrons or the cops.

No one could say he wasn’t the real thing, anyways.

"Wow. So I guess you’re really good at wandless magic then."

Harry shrugged, disinclined to answer. "I guess."

"Anything you’re really good at?"

Break and enter. "Not really. It was all slight of hand."

They’d entered a musty old wand shop, while Severus picked up a potions periodical in the waiting room and began to read. James glanced significantly.

"He’ll be all day anyways."

"You don’t know that," James argued in a whisper, "and the longer we’re here, the more of a chance someone will show up—"

"It’s Ollivander’s. Death Eaters need wands too" Severus explained with an acuity of boredom innate to the very intelligent or very preoccupied. He flipped back to his periodical, read about methods of pickling children’s toe parings, and was lost to the world.

James turned back just in time to hear the beginning of Ollivander’s entrance—"it was just yesterday, it seems to me, that your father was here buying his first wand..."

He took Harry’s hand in his, and James noted, painfully, the lines of white scars hemming the palm. He’d have to ask about them later.

"Yes, your father’s hands—he had yew, fourteen inches, phoenix feather..."

James Potter coughed.

"It was mahogany and unicorn’s tail."

Ollivander’s eyes condescended to his introjection.

"Of course, of course... well, try this..."

Severus had been correct. After sitting through three hours and fourteen minutes of minor explosions spaced with James’ enthused monologues on his own years at Hogwarts-- together with his less than successful attempts to extract more than three words from Harry—they settled with a nice rowan and dragon heartstring wand, thirteen inches.

"Not a perfect fit, not a perfect fit..." muttered Ollivander distractedly, "but I’ll see you in a few years for your match."

James grinned as they left the shop. "Not every day that Ollivander gets such a tricky customer. Mark that you’ll be a great wizard, kid. They say Dumbledore spent five hours in the shop before he came out with something that would scratch it for him... even then, he burnt out the wand in two years and had to buy another. So, what’ve we got left? Books?"

Harry, normally a reluctant student, took an unusual interest in the bookstore. The herbology and potions didn’t interest him in the least, but the transformation and defense books looked handy. His father grinned at his obvious interest, and grabbed another book from the top racks. "Don’t tell your mother about this, but read it from front to back."

The Animagus Transformation.

Harry had no idea as to what an animagus was—but free loot was free loot, and he wasn’t about to look askance on his father’s enthused generosity. As far as James was concerned, whatever Harry wanted today was his.

Severus emerged from the store after them with his own bundle of books.

"Now..." and James halted for a moment. "You’ve just had a birthday, haven’t you!" he declared. "How’d you like a familiar? Toads are kind of useless, but owls carry mail and all that, and cats can be useful for watching your back."

Severus’ unusually good hearing caught this. As you’d know. I swear your blasted Tabby would have stalked Lily and I to hell before I mailed it off to the Muggle Humane Society. And then the blasted thing came back and clawed my leg off... so much for scratch balms, I still have the scars...

Harry’s responses somewhat daunted James for their lack of enthusiasm, but hey, the kid had to be disoriented.

"Sure... could I just, well, look at the kinds of familiars available?"

"Right on, boy." James patted Harry on the shoulder, and the kid stiffened reflexively. "Right this way."

The Magical Menagerie housed a number of kittens, including a rather disgruntled golden kneazle. Yet despite James’ nudgings towards a pretty black kitten, Harry turned towards the back of the shop and the dirty reptile cages. One, in particular, housed a rather tiny silver snake.

The reptile glanced at him, and suddenly, Harry knew exactly what he wanted.

"Hey, umm, Dad," he began, trying out the name for the first time, to a sudden brightness in his father’s eyes. "Could I get..." he gestured at the little snake.

If it had been any of his other children, James later reflected, he would have said no. It wasn’t as though Death Eaters could speak with snakes, or as though the Dark Lord had time to gossip with any old reptile—but snakes simply weren’t kept by light wizards. Usually. Unless you were a nutter like Xenophon Lovegood or Aberforth Dumbledore, but even then, there’d be talk.

But Harry had already removed the little snake, and it was wound lovingly about his arm, and Severus didn’t seem alarmed, so the General duly paid for the creature... and was only slightly upset upon learning of its origins...

"Oy, yeah. Glad someone took the wee beastie." The shopkeeper took a long draw from his pipe, and set it down in the tin ashtray. "Mite was confiscated last week from an illegal operation on Knockturn Alley—they found Borgin and Burkes was trafficking in the dark arts. Betcha know, sir General, about the Auror raid," his voice lowered. "They had some nasty critters there—an amphibaena, of all things, and a few hydra. This though, and some of the kittens—" he indicated a bandy-legged gold cat—"were normal, abused critters, so they handed them onto me."

James didn’t know what to say to this, but fortunately, they were on their way out, and Harry was cooing at the snake and acting less like a startled crow than a normal boy—so he wisely decided not to say anything at all.

mmmmmmmmmm

"Lily will want you to come home for supper," James offered with less of his usual reluctance to Severus.

"I apologize that I must refuse," Severus responded, mechanically tacit. "However..."

he drew out a packet from his cloak, and handed the parcel to Harry. Mystified, the boy took it, and looked questioningly at the tough old man.

"Boy—" Severus scowled, "while I did not enjoy our earlier encounter, I must approve of your caution regarding unknown persons. If I had been an abductor—and given who your father is, there may be plenty of difficulty with those—your skills might have bought you a few seconds of time—but at present, they are insufficient. Read those books, and maybe you’ll survive for longer than two minutes if you find yourself in any real trouble."

James glanced back at him.

"If you haven’t forgotten, Potter, Lily appointed me godfather to Sirius and Elspeth after Black’s death. I consider my duties to extend to Hadrian as well."

The man turned on his heel and disapparated.

Harry watched him disappear with a certain awe. The guy moved like the Grim Reaper. Sooo cool.

And, now he was getting sent to some cheesy domestic scene with his grinning clone of a father and a rather bored snake.

Yeah, Sully had sent him on an acid trip alright.

Lead the way.