Harry skipped his usual shower, and splashed water on his face to wake him up properly. He still looked a mess in his own eyes, but he supposed it couldn’t be helped—not without an illusion spell.

That was a point. Harry looked very hard at himself. Try as he might, he just couldn’t see any Snape characteristics—he was unmistakeably a Potter. That too must be an illusion, which chilled him: what did he really look like? Would he ever get to see his real face? Did he even want to?

And then, to his mother’s inheritance. Snape had cast the illusion on his wings again, but he could still see them. He guessed that was only possible since he knew of the spell. He wondered if the other spell hadn’t revealed itself to him because he wasn’t ready yet to see through it.

Getting dressed was more awkward than usual. Harry realised that his wings could be kept folded inside his shoulders—they just sort of dissolved into his skin, and re-emerged when he urged them to. But for his broken wing, this was a problem; it was to remain in the sling, which of course was external, so it was a lump in his back that felt tender whenever his clothes brushed against it.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Ron asked, when Harry reappeared from the bathroom. “You still look kind of pale.”

Harry hesitated. He didn’t want to keep lying to his friends. On the other hand, there was no way he could start telling them everything; he was going to need a lot of time to sort it out in his head first. And then how would he do it? It wasn’t as if he could just say: “Oh by the way, Snape’s my father and acts like a git because he spies on Voldemort, my mother was a dragon queen, I can’t go near a Dementor without hearing my mum being killed, Black was my mum and James’ friend and sold them out to Voldemort, and now he and an assassin sent by my mum’s brother are trying to kill me. Yeah, apart from that, everything’s fine.”

“Okay, you win,” Harry mumbled. “I’m not fine. But … I’m not ready. Not yet.”

Ron nodded, though it looked an effort, his brow furrowed. “Come on, then,” he said, sounding less cheerful than before. “We’d better hurry up or breakfast will be finished before we get there.”

They didn’t see Hermione until their first class. Harry dragged his feet all the way to Transfiguration. He was sure he wouldn’t be able to concentrate at all on anything the teachers had to impart that day, but he was probably behind enough as it was. Hermione looked at him in concern when they arrived in the classroom, but didn’t get a chance to ask Harry if he was all right—something Harry found an extreme relief.

Professor McGonagall didn’t look too happy with him for some reason, but refrained from giving any sort of clue until after the class was dismissed. “Potter, a word.”

Harry approached the desk nervously.

“I have been informed by Madam Pomfrey that you took it upon yourself to discharge yourself yesterday morning.”

“Er, yes, Professor,” Harry said. He wasn’t going to get punished for that, was he?

“In which case, might I ask where you spent the day? Since you did not appear in any of your classes.”

Harry gulped. He should have seen this coming.

“I … I was with Professor Snape, Professor,” he blurted out.

Professor McGonagall looked more surprised than Harry had ever seen her—evidently, this was the last answer she had been expecting. “With Professor Snape? Doing what, precisely?”

His mind was a blank. “Um, I think you would be better off asking him, Professor.”

She stared at him, as if trying to work out whether or not he was being impertinent. “I shall. So where were you in the afternoon, while Professor Snape was teaching his classes?”

“In the dormitory, Professor. He gave me a sleeping potion. I slept from before lunchtime till this morning.”

“I see.” There was a pause. “Well then, to the other thing. Professor Dumbledore has requested your presence in the Hospital Wing. After your classes today, Potter,” she added as Harry brightened. “That is it; you may go.”

-

During break, Harry found a catalogue and placed a large owl-order for socks. Christmas was still over a month off, but now he had made the promise, he didn’t want to run the risk of forgetting, and letting Dumbledore down. When his classes had finished, he left his bag with a rather disgruntled Ron and Hermione and hurtled off to the Hospital Wing.

Upon skidding into the ward, Harry was met by a very annoyed-looking matron. “Potter,” she said shortly. “How is your shoulder?”

“Fine, Madam Pomfrey. Can I see Professor Dumbledore now?”

She sniffed. It looked like she was struggling not to yell at him. In a very restrained voice she finally said, “Very well, then. Albus, Potter’s here to see you.”

As Harry rounded the curtains, he saw that since he had left Dumbledore’s side, his bed had been surrounded by flowers and sweets galore. Suddenly realising he hadn’t brought anything, Harry scrabbled desperately in his pockets, but all he came up with was a very old, sticky Every-Flavour Bean, which he didn’t think Dumbledore would appreciate.

Dumbledore himself looked very strange. Now in Hospital Wing pyjamas, propped up on pillows, his poor singed beard lop-sided, he was nonetheless smiling widely at Harry, putting aside a copy of Transfiguration Today.

“Professor?”

“Harry! Good to see you’re all right.” Dumbledore sounded his usual cheerful self, and Harry couldn’t help but smile despite his rather forlorn appearance.

“That’s thanks to you, Professor,” Harry said awkwardly, sitting down on the only chair by the bed not piled high with gifts. “You saved my life. Thank you—”

“Don’t mention it, my boy,” Dumbledore said warmly.

“I can’t believe how close it  was, this time.”

Dumbledore reached over and gently took Harry’s hands in his. “It’s all right, Harry,” he soothed. “You are fine, I will be fine, and this perpetrator will be caught, I assure you.”

Harry swallowed. How could wizards catch a dragon? But he chose not to raise this point, sure that Dumbledore did not have any idea what they were dealing with. “You really think it was Sirius Black, sir?”

Dumbledore hesitated. “I have to say, I hope so—otherwise, it would mean we have another killer on the loose to worry about.”

“I’m sorry you got hurt—”

“Harry,” Dumbledore said firmly. “Do not apologise.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Now,” Dumbledore said, “to the reason I asked you to come.”

Harry mocked hurt. “You mean you didn’t just want me to come for a chat?”

Dumbledore chuckled. “No, I didn’t. As much as I appreciate the company—all my staff seem to be more interested in taking their lessons than coming to visit—”

“That is what you pay them for, sir,” Harry said with a grin.

“Cheek! Anyway, back to the original point, I had an interesting talk with Professor Snape yesterday, about you.”

“Er … yes?”

“Yes. I understand we have company?” Dumbledore looked around the room. “Lyle, could you show yourself?”

“You know Lyle too?” Harry asked, as his bodyguard appeared. He wondered what else Dumbledore knew—obviously not everything, but …

“We have met a few times,” Lyle spoke up. “Headmaster.” He greeted Dumbledore with a nod. “It is good to see you again.”

“And you too,” Dumbledore said. “Severus informs me that, having heard about recent events, you have taken it upon yourself to act as a guard for Harry.”

“That is correct,” Lyle said after a moment.

“Well then, I have to offer you my gratitude. As Harry does, too, I imagine,” Dumbledore added with a glance at Harry, his eyes twinkling.

“Yeah,” Harry managed to get out. Lyle nodded understandingly.