Snape seemed to regain a bit of strength once they returned to the house, and stalked into the kitchen to drink two giant glasses of water.

"Are you all right, sir?" Harry asked, eyeing him warily. While he didn't exactly like Snape, the man had been somewhat tolerable over the last day. Harry also didn't know whom he'd call for help if Snape got really sick, as Dumbledore didn't even know where they were.

"Dehydrated," Snape answered, narrowing his eyes at Harry. "You honestly have no idea."

Harry shrugged, feeling stupidly self-conscious. He couldn't remember getting sick as a child, and he knew if he had been, his Aunt wouldn't have made a big deal about it.

"I have been to the hospital wing," Harry said, watching Snape as he pulled Muggle medicine boxes out of the cabinet beside the fridge. "Missing bones, unconscious. Stuff like that."

Snape gave him a dirty look, before dumping the tablets from three different boxes into a mortar. The tablets were crushed violently, in between a pause for a hearty round of sneezes, and the powder from a packet mix was added. A few things from the table where the cauldrons stood were floated over, and Harry saw that they were thrown in too.

"Wizards do not have a sufficient means to cure the common cold," Snape said, tapping out the crushed mixture into a mug. "Pepper-up is used to mask the effects, but the body is still weak while it fights off infection."

Harry watched as Snape added hot water to the mixture, making a face as he did so. That definitely was not going to taste good.

"Is that your own cure?" Harry asked.

Snape sniffed the mug with disdain, as if it was a potion Neville or Harry had brewed.

"This is likely poison," Snape calmly said, sipping the mixture. Harry's eyebrows rose into his hairline, but Snape didn't seem to be concerned about what he was drinking.

"However, it will get rid of this blasted cold."

"Oh," Harry said, unsure of how he was supposed to react. Snape was giving him a rather smug look, and Harry had very little doubt that Snape knew exactly what was in the mixture and if it would actually kill him.

A single box floated from one of the back cabinets in the room, over to Harry's spot at the table. It was an old box with smoothed corners from being handled often, and there was a scrap of paper over the original label that said bezoars.

"The Dark Lord may or may not attempt to poison you, if given the opportunity, and it would behove you to know how to defend yourself."

"Great," Harry muttered, opening the box and peeking inside. There were several black lumps inside, with little bits of leaf and hair stuck to them, and they looked like something one of Mrs Figg's cats had brought up. Absolutely disgusting.

"Those are bezoars, Potter, and if after two years you cannot tell me what they are used for, you are in for a very long evening of essay writing and cauldron scrubbing," Snape warned.

"It's an antidote, sir," Harry grouchily answered, dropping the lid back on the box and crossing his arms. He'd spent three weeks reading ahead for potions class after his disastrous first lesson, but it hadn't been enough to get on Snape's good side, and Harry had long ago stopped trying.

"Very good, Mr Potter," Snape said, with muted surprise. He finished the revolting mixture in the mug, and sat back down at the table where his water was. "They are not effective in all cases of poisoning, but in most, and do not require a special form of potion for ingestion. One may simply shove a bezoar down the throat of another. I do hope you're taking notes, Potter, and I'm not simply wasting my breath."

"I am," Harry muttered, pulling parchment out of his pocket to write the information down, He unfolded what was there and remembered the Ministry's letter.

"Oh, Hedwig brought this this morning. I haven't answered it yet," Harry said, handing over the letter.

Snape gave it a cursory glance and rolled his eyes.

"Burn it."

He glanced up at the clock over the kitchen, before taking another drink of water.

"Burn their letter? Won't they know?" Harry asked. Between last year's incident with Dobby's magic, and this year's almost forgiveness for blowing up his Aunt, Harry didn't know what to make of the Ministry. Completely ignoring them had never crossed his mind.

"Potter," Snape said, crossing his arms. His nose was still rather red, from blowing it so often, and it gave him a rather comical look. "What will happen if you inform the Ministry of your whereabouts?"

Harry drummed his fingers on the table as he thought. If Dumbledore knew where he was, and there was trouble, he'd be able to come help Harry. But Harry wasn't quite sure that the Ministry would step in all that quickly. It'd be poor form if they let the Boy who Lived get hurt, but Harry figured that was the extent of their concern. The Ministry was very official and a bit unnerving, and Harry wasn't exactly sure why they needed to know where he was at all times.

"Everyone will know where I am?" Harry asked.

"Not everyone," Snape swiftly said, his voice already sounding uncongested. "However, it is not up to the Ministry of Magic to monitor every citizen's location."

"Right," Harry said, nodding. "Especially if I'd just left for a two week..." Harry almost said vacation, but then remembered where he was.

"Excursion," Snape supplied, a smirk on his face. He glanced at the clock once more, and then leaned over the table to the box in front of Harry. The lid of the box was flicked off, and Harry nearly gagged as Snape chose a bezoar and popped it into his mouth.

"Eugh," Harry grimaced.

Snape gave him a sharp look as he stood from the table.

"Some of us mere mortals do get sick, Potter, and do not like it in the least," he said, coughing loudly. "It is now two. Finish writing out your encounters with the Dark Lord, and then you may play more Nintendo."

Harry blinked, pausing as he reached for the pen that was keeping his page in the notebook.

"I believe I told you I'd know exactly what you touched," Snape commented, raising his eyebrow. His voice was already starting to sound less congested, but he looked unsteady on his feet.

"We need more food," Harry said, choosing not to comment on his game playing. "If you want me to make dinner."

Snape gave him an odd look, though he was blinking with exaggeration, as if in effort to keep his eyes open.

"Half-five, the shop will still be open," Snape answered. He left the room before Harry could add anything, and Harry hoped he'd made it to his bed before passing out. The bezoar might have neutralised whatever poisonous mix Snape had concocted, but it appeared that the medicinal effects were still kicking in.

....

Harry's Nintendo character, Toad, was a spry little racer. It didn't make up for the fact that Harry was pants at the game, but he was at least making some measure of progress. He'd not come in last in the previous four races, and even placed second in the final race. Harry was getting tired of playing though, and restless as he could hear the sounds of another summer rainstorm moving in.

Walking about the living room, Harry neatly folded up his clothes and repacked his trunk. He disliked sleeping out in the open, not only because he preferred a smaller darker area, but also because it felt disorganized to have his bed and things right out in the sitting room. Maybe if Snape wasn't sending him off to Hermione's that night he'd ask to kip on the floor in Snape's office. The office was crowded, but at least he'd have a door he could shut.

Harry nearly kicked his trunk when he glanced at his Broom Servicing Kit that Hermione had given him for his birthday. Hermione was in France with her parents, Harry remembered. He'd have to stay here at least until either the Grangers or the Weasleys returned. Harry tried not to think of how Snape would react to that news.

Bored of the games, and not interested in doing his summer homework, Harry pulled out the two notebooks he now had. One on his observations, and one on his memories of his encounters with Voldemort. It really had been like meeting two different people - even though Tom Riddle had been given up-to-date information from Ginny, the two Voldemorts had been each arrogant, threatening, and cunning in their own ways.

Harry remembered standing in front of the Mirror of Erised, looking horrified at the snake face in the back of Quirrell's head. And the taunting voice, telling him that though his parents had been brave to protect him, that they'd begged for mercy in the end. Had they? They were both Gryffindors; if they were so brave, hadn't they fought?

Harry flipped over to the next few pages, and rereading what he'd written was like plunging back into the Chamber of Secrets. Tom Riddle, the younger Hogwarts Prefect, had been so arrogant down in the Chamber. He wasn't even fully human yet, but he'd been far more insufferable and sure of himself than even Malfoy was.

He hadn't written down everything Riddle had said in the Chamber, as the teenager had never bloody shut up and Harry couldn't remember it all, but the key words were there. He wondered what Snape would make of Harry's memories, before smiling at the book. In a note at the bottom of the page, Harry wrote: ‘Talks a lot. Thinks highly of himself. More time to escape?'

One point that Riddle had brought up, however, was something that had been on Harry's mind since that first year in the infirmary, when Dumbledore had told him that the truth was a powerful and dangerous thing. What exactly had happened that night in Godric's Hollow? And why had he been the one that was targeted? Had Voldemort been in the habit of murdering families and children, and they'd been targeted for no reason?

Harry felt a bit sick wondering, but guilt overpowered the uneasiness. His parents had died to protect him, and in the two years he'd been in the wizarding world, Harry hadn't lifted up a single book to see if he could find out why they'd had to. Everyone else seemed to have a theory, and they all looked at him just a slight bit differently than anyone else. Some with reverence, some with curiosity, some with jealousy, and some, like Snape, with disdain. Even his Aunt Petunia had a special scornful look, one that was especially nasty on the 30th of January. It had taken Harry a few years to work out that that was his mother's birthday, and even longer to realise that the look was born out of anger that he'd survived, and his Mum hadn't.

Rain started to softly pelt at the window, and Harry turned on one of the standing lamps in the room as he took three books off the shelf and back to the folding couch. One was a general history of magic, one was about important wizarding events over the last two hundred and fifty years, and the third was a folder that he'd found sandwiched between the history books, that seemed to be full of newspaper clippings.

The history books were blandly generic, giving Harry a clear picture of Voldemort's quest for power and domination, but providing frustratingly little information about his defeat. It seemed that no one really knew what had happened that night, and all that was written down was that Voldemort had gone to the Potter's house in Godric's Hollow, cast the Killing Curse three times, and on the last time, suffered death in the course of a rebound.

The newspaper clippings were another matter. The rain picked up and the room grew darker, but Harry barely noticed as he read through clipping after clipping of The Daily Prophet, The Quibbler, and some newspaper called The Nightly Courier. Unlike the history books, the newspaper clippings were raw stories of the death and destruction wrought by some group called the Death Eaters in the first wizarding war. More than once Harry found an article written about non-purebloods in wizarding villages being terrorized, of Muggles being taunted by magic, and most disturbingly, of people going missing. Often without a trace, and there were never follow-up articles about the disappeared having been found.

Oddly, Harry also found a clipped paragraph about new teachers starting at Hogwarts, and someone named Trelawney had been underlined. There was another article stapled to that one, about a rowdy night in a pub in Hogsmeade, but Harry didn't bother reading that one. Hogsmeade was the village outside of Hogwarts, and Harry had a fleeting sense of hope as he searched his trunk. It only took a minute to unearth the permission form he'd received in the mail though, and despite his strongest wish, it still remained unsigned.

He folded it back up nicely and returned it to the trunk, planning to ask the Grangers to sign if he ended up staying there for the last week of the summer, after they'd returned from France. Harry then continued with the newspaper clippings, skipping over most of the celebratory ones after Voldemort had disappeared. Harry didn't want to read about the celebrations surrounding his parents' deaths.

One of the last articles in the folder was a large one, and Harry blinked at the mad face of Sirius Black snarling back at him. The still Muggle photos on the Durlsey's telly hadn't done Black any justice, and Harry's eyes were riveted to the strong grip Black seemed to have on his prisoner's number board, almost as if he were going to snap it in half.

"Black Kills 13 With One Spell!" Harry read aloud. It was a front-page sensational article, but Harry was riveted as he read about the explosion, the madness, and the laughter of Black as Aurors arrested him on the scene. The paper offered a few theories for Black's sudden mental snap, but one caught Harry's eye in particular. Black wanted to be second in command of the Death Eater organization, and hadn't cared who had to die as he worked his way up. To get there, Black had betrayed the Potters. Sirius Black had been their friend.

"Not exactly a pleasant read on a rainy afternoon," Snape suddenly said, standing in the hall and putting his jacket on.

"He was their friend," Harry said, looking up and blinking slowly. It was just half five, but Harry hadn't even noticed the clock in the room. The small smirk that had been on Snape's face slid into an expression of blankness.

"He was their best friend?" Harry asked, a slight question in his voice because the newspaper article hadn't gone that deeply into detail, but Harry figured that if Snape knew his father so well, he'd likely known the 'friend' Sirius Black too.

"Much like yourself and Mr Weasley," Snape answered, face still carefully blank. His nose and cheeks had gone back to their normal pallid colour, and his voice was no longer clouded from congestion.

"But, how could anyone..." Harry trailed off, staring back down at the picture of Sirius Black. Voldemort had killed his parents, but it seemed that this was the man that had made it possible.

"Sirius Black proved even as a boy that he was capable of spilling his dearest friends' most dangerous secrets," Snape disdainfully said, picking Harry's zip jumper off the front hallway hook and throwing it at him. "And once he is returned to Azkaban, he will continue paying for it for the rest of his life."

"But he killed them!" Harry said, yanking his jumper off the couch and pulling it on. He nearly tripped over the corner of his trunk as he walked to the front door. "He can't just sit in prison and keep living. My parents are dead!"

"And what are you going to do about it?" Snape demanded, flicking off the light as he opened the door. The rain hadn't let up at all, but Snape had a few old umbrellas in a stand under the coat hooks on the wall. "A thirteen year old boy going after a mass-murderer?"

"Well, that's what you're training me for, isn't it?" Harry sullenly asked, stepping outside and scowling at the weather. Now that Snape was back to his normal grouchy self, Harry wasn't worried about encountering any spooky dogs outside.

"I am training you to fight You-Know-Who," Snape hissed, pushing Harry forward on the path toward the main road. "Black is not your fight and if I find you have gone looking for him, you will be facing detention every week for the entire school year."

Harry clutched tightly to his umbrella, keeping it close to the top of his head to not only protect him from the rain, but to avoid having to look at Snape.

"So why is it okay for me to fight one and not the other?" Harry glumly asked.

The answer didn't come for a few minutes, when they'd already walked past five houses and were approaching the small roundabout in the centre of the village. There wasn't a grocer's shop in Lower Tarrow, as Harry discovered, but there was a sort of general shop on the other end of the main road. It was only a ten-minute walk from Snape's house, which was on the east end of the village. They passed a few people on their way, mostly older people who were out working in their front gardens. Almost all paused to look at Harry, then Snape, then back to Harry and he realised that this was the sort of village in which everyone knew everyone. When they arrived to the centre of the town, and Harry saw a sign that said ‘Welcome to Lower Tarrow, Population 64', he knew he was right.

"Because fighting Voldemort has never been something you've had a choice in," Snape finally said, in a low voice. Harry didn't miss the name usage. Snape was one of those people that never referred to Voldemort by his real name, preferring You-Know-Who, or, oddly, the Dark Lord.

Harry pondered Snape's answer, but before he could really think of what to say in reply, they'd reached a small grocer's shop that looked to also sell souvenirs and petrol.

"Choose things you'll eat for the next few days, John," Snape said, not looking at Harry as he opened the door. "As you neglected to mention that the Grangers are on holiday."

Embarrassed, Harry pushed past Snape and didn't make eye contact.

"I forgot," he muttered.

The general shop was fairly well stocked, and Harry picked up a box of cereal that he liked, along with a packet of crisps and a few other things. Snape was choosing vegetables and more soup ingredients, but Harry didn't mind. He'd never had a lot of sweets as a child, and didn't much crave them now. He'd smiled at the elderly woman eyeing him curiously by the shelf with biscuits, and then when he met Snape in queue to pay, had a small second of panic.

The cashier seemed to have a little question or comment for everyone he was ringing up, and Harry realised that the cashier would have a question for him too. While Snape had given him an identity - Nephew John - Harry scrambled to think of what John was like.

During his summers and when he was younger, Harry had often made up identities for himself when he was out playing alone. Just a game he had, pretending to be someone else. Anyone but Harry Potter. And now he was faced with the game again, but this time it was sort of real, as he was at Snape's house for protection and however he acted was surely something Snape was going to grade him on in his Defence lessons.

"H'llo there," the cashier said, starting to ring up Snape and Harry's food. He'd nodded to Snape, but Harry was obviously the more interesting one, as he was new to the village.

"Hi," Harry answered, concentrating on the total on the register. Snape was standing silently beside Harry, his long black hair now brown and cut short, making him look less like a wizard and more like a Muggle. Harry took the silence as confirmation that Snape was testing him.

"Here for the summer then?" the man asked. The cashier appeared to be in his late forties, and while he looked nice enough, he looked like the sort of man who had never had any aspirations to leave a village like Lower Tarrow.

Harry shrugged, and gave an obvious glance to Snape.

"Probably. I don't get to make the plans."

Harry saw a flash of a smirk from Snape, and reached forward to take the bags of food.

"Have there been any stray dogs in the village, lately?" Snape suddenly asked, and Harry's fingers froze around the handles of the shopping bags.

"Just Sparky, that little rat dog that Mrs Marlenson never keeps locked up," the cashier said, smiling knowingly as he handed over Snape's change. "Though last night I thought I heard a larger dog barking down your end, but it was probably Tennyson's old hound. Deaf as a post, too."

"Most likely," Snape responded, drawing out the syllables in a way that Harry knew meant that the man was completely wrong.

"Thank you," Snape said, lifting up the one light bag that Harry had left him and nodding toward the door. "John."

...

Harry sat quietly at the kitchen table as Snape put the food away. The rain was still going steady, and though the room was fairly warm, Harry kept his jumper on. He had his notebooks in front of him, and had added one sentence. 'Sirius Black was their friend.'

"Am I here for the rest of the summer?" Harry asked, wondering how he'd get his schoolbooks for next year.

"It would seem so," Snape answered, inspecting a package of biscuits that had been in the back of cupboard.

"Could I sleep in the office, then?" Harry pushed, not looking at Snape. Usually asking directly was how he managed to get a few things at the Dursleys, but Snape was impossible to intimidate.

"Something wrong with the chesterfield, Potter?" Snape asked, his snide tone covering the perceived insult.

"No," Harry immediately answered. "But, if I'm here for the next three weeks, it's better if I'm out of the way, isn't it?"

Snape took some meat pies out of the freezer and started pressing buttons on the stove.

"What an interesting choice of words, Mr Potter," Snape considered.

...

The rest of the night passed quietly, and Harry was given old textbooks to study. They were first and second year Defence Against the Dark Arts books, and to Harry's amusement, the inside pages had been scribbled all over. Eleven and twelve year old Severus Snape had apparently been a fairly studious Slytherin, but had also been fairly disparaging with his remarks against the author and professors he'd had.

Not much had changed with the adult Snape, but Harry wasn't dumb enough to voice that comment aloud.

After Harry had gone to the washroom to prepare for bed, he'd stopped outside the picture of the house on the wall, staring at it.

"Is this an actual place?" Harry asked, watching as one man seemed to spend a few minutes pondering in front of the shabby row house.

"Of course it's a place," Snape answered, rolling his eyes as he left the office. "And those are real people walking past it."

He walked down the hall to the living room, and Harry stared harder at the photo, poking the man loitering in front of the house.

"How does that work?" Harry asked.

"Security spell," Snape said, not giving any further answers. He went back into the office, carrying the blankets that had been on the chesterfield. Harry peered into the office and found that a small folding bed had been set up there. Harry hadn't seen Snape walking through the house with it, so he assumed it had been transfigured from something.

"Fetch your trunk," Snape ordered, tossing the blankets on the folding bed. Harry smiled, noting that the papers in the office had been tidied, the blinds had been fully drawn to block out any light, and Harry's two notebooks were on the desk.

By the time he'd lugged his stuff into the office, Snape had cleared space in front of one of his bookcases for Harry's trunk.

"I want the books read by the end of summer," Snape said, crossing his arms as he watched Harry sit on the bed. It was surprisingly comfortable for a fold out bed, and it had a nookish type feel as it was nestled against bookcases and the side of a small armchair.

"A list of skills you believe you need work on, and a list of offensive spells you know. Have it ready for tomorrow."

Harry nodded, reaching for one of the notebooks on the desk. A piece of paper floated down in front of him, and Harry skimmed it quickly. It was a schedule, divided into three parts. Morning, afternoon, and evening.

"Outdoor?" Harry asked, surprised at how vague the schedule was.

"Outdoor," Snape confirmed. "I believe it is more likely that you will face the Dark Lord outdoors, but in any event, we will not practise indoor duelling until back at the castle and I am not financially liable for any damage."

"Oh," Harry said, looking down at the schedule again and leaving it on the desk. A small laugh escaped as he imagined Dumbledore scolding Snape for breaking windows in the castle.

"The exception will be if it's raining. I am not being paid nearly enough to train you in the rain and You-Know-Who is far too interested in drama and theatrics to fight in foul weather."

Harry blinked, before grinning. "What a missed opportunity though. Dark and stormy night, and all that...it's a great way to set the mood for the history books."

Snape glared at him and finally shook his head. "One may only hope you live long enough to irritate the Dark Lord to death."

Snape flicked the light in the hallway off, and grasped the handle of the office door to close it after him.

"Sleep well, Potter," Snape said, with a wry smile that instantly had Harry on guard. "We begin physical training tomorrow."

...

Snape's back garden had a slope to it, with a stone retaining wall at the bottom of the hill, where the river twisted around the back of the property. It had a few healthy trees, and was mostly protected from anyone walking by in the bridge at the front of the house. Snape had also added a disillusionment spell to it, so many years ago that people in the village assumed that that part of the property just didn't have a garden.

Harry stood at the bottom of the slope, in front of two trees, looking warily at Snape. He'd changed into some of Dudley's worst rags and had only gotten more suspicious when Snape cast an unbreakable spell on his glasses. The ground where he was standing was still wet and mucky from the rainstorm the day before, but Harry still shifted impatiently as his shoes very slowly sunk into the mud.

"Are you familiar with dodge ball, Mr Potter?" Snape asked, standing up at the glass door of the house. He held a small orange ball in his hand, and a not very reassuring smile on his face.

"The Muggle game?" Harry asked, watching very intently as Snape tossed the ball up and down.

"The very same," Snape confirmed. "Simple enough, Potter. Dodge the balls."

"Hang on," Harry said, stalling because he was quite certain that Snape's throws weren't going to be gentle. "You're not seriously thinking Voldemort is going to throw stuff at me?"

Snape clicked his tongue in irritation, and Harry could hear it even from ten feet away.

"Most people forget that during a duel, the surroundings of the participants face heavy damage, by poorly aimed spells. It is one thing, Potter, to defend yourself against whatever curse or hex is coming your way. But you must also be aware of your surroundings, and able to dodge falling rocks from a blasted wall, or branches twisting in a conjured wind."

Harry stared down at his hands, where the scabs from Ripper weren't quite healed. He was fairly fast catching a snitch on a broom, but Harry's co-ordination with anything else wasn't the best.

"Can't I just use magic?"

"No," Snape bluntly answered. "You are thirteen years old. Perfect your individual spells, before even thinking to attempt multispell casting."

"Right," Harry muttered. He and Ron still had trouble mastering the spells they were being taught now, and that was one spell at a time, in a non-life or death situation.

"It is not rare for a duelling wizard to also intentionally cast spells against their surroundings. While the other participant is attempting to guess what is next coming, the first wizard has blown up the wall beside him."

Harry didn't need to ask to know that Snape was that type of a duellist.

"On three, Potter," Snape said, raising his arm. Harry hoped that Snape would be somewhat impressed with his skills, as he'd had to dodge Dudley and his friends plenty of times when he was growing up. Not only them, but the rocks, balls, sticks, and anything else they threw.

Snape had a pretty good arm. Harry had no qualms about admitting that, as he barely twisted out of the way of another ball. Harry wasn't quite sure how Snape was conjuring them so quickly, but it didn't take long for the muddy bottom of the garden to be full of muck splattered orange balls. They were a slight tripping hazard as Harry kept running, but he suspected that was rather the point. As Snape had mentioned, blowing up walls was a valid duelling technique, and the rubble had to land somewhere.

After getting nailed in the thigh with a ball, Harry held his hand up for a break. Snape was standing up on the patio, another ball ready in his hand, with his wand grasped loosely in the other hand. His face was slightly flushed, but he looked amused, and almost happy.

"Is Voldemort one of those duellists?" Harry asked, massaging his thigh. It almost felt like it was going to cramp, and Harry knew he'd have a massive bruise there later.

"No," Snape responded, tossing the ball up in the air. Harry wasn't fooled; he knew Snape could launch the ball at him at any second. "The Dark Lord enjoyed drama and power when he fought. He preferred to only focus on his target, and to taunt said target as well."

"Then why is this so important?" Harry huffed.

"As the leader, he was accustomed to duelling without external distractions. Thusly, when he was distracted, his considerable power caused damage to whatever it hit," Snape bluntly answered.

"And you think if I can distract him, I can defeat him?" Harry continued.

Snape gave him a considering look, before whipping the ball near Harry's feet. Harry jumped, not as high as he'd done when they'd first started this exercise, but he managed to avoid the rebound bounce from the back garden wall as well.

"I think any chance you get should be taken seriously," Snape finally answered.

Harry nodded, before lifting each foot and flicking the mud off his shoes. Harry had done fairly well so far, and he was fairly certain that Snape wasn't taking things too easy on him.

"Regardless of it's effectiveness, I must admit that volleying dodge balls at you is just as fun as I imagined it would be," Snape commented, a wicked smirk on his face as he rocketed another ball at Harry.

In a fit of annoyance, Harry growled and made a strong wish that the balls around his feet would all volley back at Snape, just as fast as they'd been hurled at him. He was only slightly surprised to see that they had, as his accidental magic occurred when he was most annoyed, but the feeling of justice was fleeting when he saw that the bastard gracefully avoided every single one.

...

Harry took a shower to wash the muck off himself after the game of dodge ball, getting the water as hot as he could to warm himself up. His feet were wrinkly, and he figured his socks were a loss, but he felt accomplished. Sure, he'd been hit with quite a few of the balls, but he'd dodged more than had hit him.

It didn't ease the ache in his legs as he went to the kitchen for lunch, but it was a similar ache to what Harry had after a long day of chores and Harry Hunting, so he knew it would go away after a day or so.

Snape was making stew, and the radio was playing as Snape chopped up the vegetables. It was a wizarding station, not one that Harry had ever heard at the Burrow, and it played a mixture of Muggle and wizard music.

"Did I pass?" Harry asked, slipping into the seat he'd been using since first coming to Snape's. His back was to the window, though Hedwig had gone out flying so he didn't worry about angering her by ignoring her.  He sneezed twice without warning, surprising himself.

"For a small runt of a child you are far more agile than I had expected."

Harry furrowed his brow as he took in the comment. Snape's tone had been dry, without a trace of humour, but Harry suspected that it was actually a compliment.

"How do you know so much about Voldemort?" Harry quietly asked, opening his notebook and staring at it. He could feel Snape's eyes on him, but Harry wanted to know. He had no doubt that Snape was going to help train him, but he wanted to know why Snape. Why was Snape the best at Defence, and why did Snape know Voldemort's fighting habits so well. "And why do you call him the Dark Lord?"

The wooden spatula Snape had been stirring the stew with hit the side of the pot harder than it had seconds before, and Harry didn't dare to look up.

"One should always study one's enemy," Snape answered, in a tone that signalled the end of questioning.

One should always study one's enemy.  It was a lie - there was another reason that Snape knew Voldemort so well. It was just a feeling Harry had, just as it had been when he'd caught his first look at Snape and realised that Snape would never be sympathetic toward any Gryffindors. But Harry knew that there was some other explanation for it.

He also recognised the truth in Snape's statement though, and turned over the page to write more of what he could remember of the ghostly Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest.

....

Harry went to bed obscenely early that night, as Snape had put some of his medicinal concoction in Harry's hot chocolate when Harry wasn't looking. As he'd shovelled Harry into the bed, Snape had mumbled something about not having the patience for a well Potter, never mind an ill one. Harry thought it was a rubbish excuse, but his eyelids were closing on him and he forgot to care.

He did wake up (after twelve hours) feeling surprisingly rested and without the chill he'd had the day before. Snape did not say anything about Harry sleeping so long, but instead merely served lunch, and then held up the orange dodge ball. Harry had braced for another round of being a target, but Snape had instead set up an obstacle course in the back garden. Not overly complicated, but enough that Harry had to dodge fallen tree branches, climb over piles of bricks, and duck under charmed netting that was intent on capturing him.

It set the course for the rest of the week and weekend. Snape would come up with some sort of bizarre outdoor game, and only explain its relevance after Harry had been run though it a few times. The one time Harry did ask if Snape was just doing this as a form of torture, Snape had merely pointed to the folder of newspaper clippings again. On the second read through, the history of Voldemort's reign of terror had been no less disturbing, but it was then that Harry noticed what was going on in the background of the photos. The utter devastation that Voldemort and his followers had caused on houses, villages, and train stations. There were piles of rubble about; wooden support beams jutting up and out on odd angles, and smouldering mounds of ash on the ground.

"It's entirely possible that you and your irritating luck could make him trip on a tree root and smash his head against a rock," Snape dryly said. He nodded at the papers again though, and continued. "Best be prepared either way."

"Right," Harry said, nodding. He flicked through the pages again, and noticed something that he hadn't the first time. Snape had taken a lot of time to clip and collect the articles, but there had never been anyone mentioned with the name of Snape in them. Harry wondered why the man had done it, if his family hadn't been directly affected.

"When did Voldemort become your enemy?" Harry asked, pretending to be engrossed in another article.

Snape, who was searching on his bookshelves in the sitting room, turned to look at Harry. It was a calculating look, and Harry felt like some sort of insect under a microscope.

"Ordinarily I would remove points and assign detention for asking such a personal question, Potter," Snape levelly said, and Harry slowly looked up from the collection of articles in his hand.

"Sorry," Harry said. Normally he only felt sorry for overstepping boundaries with his relatives because it meant that he'd be stuck in his room for the evening. But now his remorse wasn't solely selfish. Snape may not have clipped articles about anyone Harry recognized, but he had lost someone in the last war. Harry could tell by the way that Snape's spine had straightened at the question, by the white-knuckle clench on the book he was holding, and the shuttered expression on his face. The biggest clue was that he was so damn adamant that Harry learn to fight and defend himself, and Snape didn't even like Harry.

"Perhaps I will tell you another time," Snape conceded, taking another book of the shelf. "Suffice to say, I will owe you a very large bottle of whatever disgustingly sugary drink you favour if you do manage to kill him."

Harry smiled at that, relieved that Snape wasn't very angry with him.

"I'll do my best, sir," Harry commented.

"See that you do," Snape said, taking his books with him as he headed down toward the kitchen. "And see if you can find your school list in that horribly disorganized trunk. I am going to Diagon Alley tomorrow."

...

Harry smiled as he stumbled out of the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron. For the five weeks he'd been at the Dursleys, all he could think of was returning here, getting his school books, his potion ingredients, looking at the latest quidditch gear; any and every little thing that reminded him that he was a wizard. Of course, spending the last week and a half with Snape had eased that tension, as he had been allowed to do magic at Snape's house, and surprisingly, he hadn't been treated like the waste of space his relatives thought him to be. Snape, when he didn't have an audience of other students or staff, was actually a halfway all right teacher.

Even though his friends wouldn't be in London that day, Harry had still balked at the idea of going shopping disguised as John. He'd argued that Sirius Black would have to be stupid to go to Diagon Alley in the middle of the day, but Snape had had that look on his face that meant he wasn't about to change his mind.

"Stop tugging at your collar," Snape hissed, pulling out his wand to tap the bricks on the gateway. Harry was wearing one of Snape's old dress shirts, because Snape had vetoed all of Harry's clothes as not being suitable for going out in public. What Harry hadn't expected was that Snape had gone out in disguise as well.

His enquiry was met with a curt ‘Potter, I have taught at Hogwarts for the past ten years. I have no desire to be recognised by any past students, whether it be in fond recollection or, more likely, a form of retribution.' That actually made quite a bit of sense to Harry, so he didn't question further.

Surprisingly, their first stop was not the apothecary, even though it was quite close to the entrance of the Leaky Cauldron. Snape marched them straight toward Flourish and Blotts, where he demanded Harry's school list.

"Unfogging the Future?" Snape asked, steering them around the group of kids checking out a cage full of books. "Why on earth are you taking divination, John?"

"Sounded easy," Harry honestly answered, with a shrug. It was only after he'd answered that he noticed Snape's faint eye twitch.

"Care of Magical Creatures?" Snape asked, with almost a growl.

"I seem to keep running into strange creatures. Thought it'd be good to learn about them," Harry smartly replied. That was apparently also not the right answer, as Snape now looked like he wanted to clobber Harry. It was interesting to see such a Snape-like expression on a softer, rounder face, with similar brown hair to Harry's closely cropped disguised cut.

"Maybe it'll teach me how to handle giant black dogs," Harry added.

"Fetch your books and be at the front in ten minutes," Snape snapped, shaking his head as he stalked off toward the Defensive Spells section.

When Harry returned to the front, books in hand and Monster Book of Monsters growling under his grip, he saw that Snape was already in queue and glaring daggers at the man paying for his order.

"Who's that, Uncle Sebastian?" Harry said. He bit the inside of his lip to not smile at the nasty look Snape gave him. Throughout their charade, Snape had never mentioned what his uncle name was, and Harry thought it was only fair that he choose, as Snape had decided on John for him.

Snape stared again at the man, his upper lip curled as he shifted his feet. Harry thought it was a bit rude, as the man at the counter, though scruffy looking and in rather worn robes, looked like a kind person. Definitely one that had seen better days, going by the scars on his face.

"Remus Lupin. Your new Defence professor," Snape said, his voice almost a growl as the Lupin bloke laughed at something the cashier said, before exiting the shop.

"The new Defence teacher?" Harry asked, craning his neck to look around Snape at the door. "I could have said hi..."

"As John Snape? A student he will not now, nor ever, have in his classes? Yes, do go introduce yourself," Snape said, dumping his books on the counter. The clerk opened his mouth, likely to ask if Snape wanted a bag, and snapped it shut again at the scowl on Snape's face.

"He might not have asked my name," Harry sulkily said, knowing exactly how stupid it sounded.

"Fear not, I'm certain you'll have his complete attention in no time," Snape muttered.

"Will that be all for today, sir?" the clerk asked, looking between them.

"No, those too," Snape said, nodding toward Harry as he withdrew his coin bag.

"I can pay for these," Harry stammered, clutching his books tightly.

"You will," Snape agreed, tapping his finger on the counter. "The wall behind the mill wheel needs to be washed. Give him the books, John."

Caught without knowing what to say, as Snape was feeding him and putting him up for the rest of the summer, and he'd not asked for a Knut from Harry, Harry dropped his books on the counter. The Monster Book of Monsters snarled, and Harry instinctively reached out to pet it as a soothing technique.

"Thank you," Harry quietly said, staring at the book that now seemed to be purring in his hand. The clerk was also watching, an indignant look on his face that matched the redness of the bite marks on his hands. 

"Don't thank me yet," Snape said, his tone slipping from anger to one more of malicious amusement. "We are going to a department store afterward, for an activity loathed by every thirteen year old boy."

He nodded to the cashier, and led Harry out of the shop.

"Er, what's that?" Harry asked, slightly nervous. He could count on both hands the number of times Aunt Petunia had ever taken him to the shops, and Harry wasn't sure what to expect.

"Clothes shopping," Snape said, in the same voice he gleefully announced detentions. "The Headmaster has been experimenting with Muggle banking technology and I have borrowed one of his new cards. We will be replacing that atrocious wardrobe of your cousin's rags, as I'm certain you'll be able to dodge spells much better once you're no longer tripping over whale-sized trousers."

Harry screwed his face up at the thought of trying on so many new clothes. As much as he wanted rid of Dudley's rags, the searching and trying on sounded like having to do exercise in a boring class of Binns'.

"Can't I just find one or two things I like, and buy a bunch of them in different colours?" Harry asked, following Snape toward the apothecary.

"Naturally," Snape answered, not slowing his pace. "But you will still need several shirts, dress shirts, jumpers, trousers, new shoes that actually fit and a week's worth of undergarments and socks."

Harry wondered if public embarrassment was a new form of torture that Snape was testing out.

Snape glanced back at Harry and kept talking.

"Two weeks' worth; you are going through puberty after all."

That would be a yes, then.