“You remember when Malfoy was going on about Black, and how if it was him he’d want revenge?”

“Yeah …” Hermione said slowly.

“I know what he meant now,” Harry said darkly.

“Oh Merlin,” Ron said. “What?”

“For my parents’ deaths.”

“What—you mean he had something to do with—”

“They were the best of friends,” Harry spat. “He’s even my bloody godfather. But he sold them out to Voldemort.”

A shocked silence fell. Harry clenched and unclenched his fists. The seething anger had been coming in waves, rising uncontrollably when he thought of it but the rest of the time eclipsed by everything else. That didn’t make it any easier to deal with.

“How … how do you know this?” Hermione said tentatively.

Harry hesitated. He wasn’t planning on telling them about his relation to Snape yet. But they already knew he and Lily had been friends, so there seemed no harm in telling them the truth.

“Snape told me.”

Ron’s expression changed from sympathetic to cynical. “And you believe him?”

“I don’t see why he would lie,” Harry said shortly. “Especially since I could surely corroborate it.”

Hermione looked unsure. “Why did he tell you?”

“He didn’t mean to …” Harry hesitated. “It was a slip.”

For a moment he was sure he heard someone invisible shift guiltily. Neither of his friends noticed.

They seemed to accept his explanation, and spent the next couple of hours alternatively badmouthing Black and trying to assure Harry that he would get his just desserts when the Dementors caught him.

Harry found, to his relief, that some of the weight had lifted off his shoulders at his admission. He still wasn’t ready for total confession yet, but it was something.

“Well, I’m hungry,” Ron said eventually, when the conversation lulled. Harry couldn’t help a small smile; it was nice to know some things never changed. “I’m going down to dinner; coming?”

They headed down to the Great Hall and helped themselves to chicken casserole. As Lyle had insisted he do every mealtime, Harry waited a few moments for his bodyguard to check the food, before loading his fork.

A hand grasped his shoulder tightly, and he dropped his cutlery as Lyle hissed in his ear, “Don’t eat that.”

“Harry, are you okay?” Ron asked, looking sideways at him with a frown.

“Um, yeah,” Harry said, wondering what to do. He didn’t have to wait long. Either Snape had a sixth sense, or he and Lyle were somehow able to communicate across the room, for he swept over almost instantly.

“Hand that over, Potter, and follow me.”

Harry gave his father the casserole, and ignoring his peers’ curious looks, followed him out of the Great Hall. Snape led them all the way to his quarters, put on the privacy guard and proceeded to study the food.

“You’re right, Lyle,” he said after a moment. “Poisoned.”

Harry gulped.

Snape straightened up. “I think, to be safe Harry, you should eat here tonight. I will notify the Headmaster what has happened and get some food sent up. Don’t eat or drink anything till I’ve checked it.” He swept out of his kitchen, and Harry heard him unblocking the fire.

Harry flopped into a chair. “So, do you reckon it was Black or the assassin?”

“Probably the latter,” Lyle said. “Since it would have to have occurred in the kitchens—only someone invisible could have pulled that off without getting caught.”

Harry wondered if he should start keeping a record of the number of murder attempts he had survived. At some point he might lose count. He must surely hold the Hogwarts record already.

“Are you all right, sire?” Lyle broke his train of thought.

“Mm. Just thinking.” Harry paused. “And I’ve said before, please call me Harry. I’m not anyone’s prince.”

Before Lyle could reply, Snape came back into the kitchen. “The rest of the food is being checked, and Albus is interrogating the house-elves.”

“I didn’t know Hogwarts had house-elves,” Harry said in interest.

“They will bring us a meal once it’s all settled down.” Snape went silent. The atmosphere was suddenly a bit awkward. He and Harry hadn’t really spent any time together—with or without a bodyguard—just for the sake of spending time together.

Harry avoided the eyes of his father and bodyguard, and stared into the empty fireplace. It really wasn’t fair. Most people targeted by killers had at least done something to make them a target. All he’d ever done was get born.

“Have you contacted your aunt and uncle yet, Harry?”

He started, looking around at Snape, who had probably asked only to break the silence. “Sorry? You mean the Dursleys?”

“Yes. To let them know you won’t be staying with them any longer.”

“Oh.” Harry paused. “No. Didn’t think of it. I suppose I should, shouldn’t I.”

He didn’t feel like he owed them anything. The best thing Vernon and Petunia had done for him was not leave him to die on the streets, like they had often said they should have. And it wasn’t like they were even his family. But it didn’t seem right to just ignore them and let them figure out on their own that he wasn’t coming back.

Harry sighed, and asked for a quill and parchment. Then he paused, wondering what to write. ‘Aunt’ and ‘Uncle’ were not accurate, either technically or emotionally. In the end he addressed it simply to Vernon and Petunia. It wasn’t like he was ever going to see them again, so there was no fear of being sharply reprimanded for his insolence.

There was no sense in explaining the whole situation. They wouldn’t want to understand it. So after a few moments of debate, he wrote simply, My Headmaster has confirmed I am no longer safe living at your house, so I am moving out. Feel free to give Dudley back his second bedroom as I will not be coming back. Please send my remaining belongings to me at Hogwarts—you can use the normal post by addressing it to c/o Hogsmeade Post Office, Scotland. If I do not receive them, I will ask Hagrid or one of my teachers to retrieve them for me. Harry

There. That was as polite as he felt he could make it. The Dursleys would certainly note the thinly veiled threat. They would certainly remember Hagrid. Harry had no doubt that his belongings would turn up in the post fairly soon. None of them wanted any more farmyard animal parts.

He put the letter in his pocket to post later, and stared into the grate again, wondering properly for the first time where he might go. Did wizards have such things as orphanages? He’d never heard of any. Would he, as the Boy-Who-Lived, be sent there? As much as he wanted to believe Dumbledore’s statement of finding a “home” for him, now the joy of leaving the Dursleys had passed, a part of Harry feared where he might end up. Anything would be an improvement—but he still really didn’t want to end up in an orphanage.

Technically, he supposed he wasn’t even an orphan. But he never dared hope for a moment that Snape would take him in.

Harry slumped further into the chair, and his eye was caught by Lyle, trying to stifle a yawn.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Certainly, sire.”

Harry suppressed a sigh. Lyle was incredibly stubborn on the mode of address.

“Do you ever sleep? I mean you’re standing over me twenty-four seven.”

“I do,” Lyle replied. “If I were working at the palace, then I would be sharing the job with other bodyguards; however we are all trained to sleep in a quasi-conscious state—that is, standing and able to wake at the slightest disturbance. I have been taking my rest whilst you are sleeping in your dormitory, since you are protected by a password there and any noise or movement would wake me, even if the attacker was invisible.”

“Oh. Is that safe? For you, I mean.”

“It’s not something that’s advisable to do all the time; but I can manage, sire.”

“Not without repercussions, surely,” Snape spoke up. “Lyle, why don’t you rest properly whilst I am with Harry. If you keep up the guard all the time, then you will eventually be too tired to defend him whilst you are awake.”

“That is a worry,” Lyle said slowly. “But …”

“Go and sleep now. Harry will be safe for the moment.”

Lyle turned to look Harry in the eye. Harry looked back. After a moment, Lyle said, “You have to dismiss me, sire.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Um—I dismiss you, Lyle. Go and get some sleep.”

“Thank you, sire.”

Harry watched Snape direct Lyle to his bedroom, feeling uncomfortably like he’d just given an order. Snape looked around at him.

“Are you all right?”

Harry shrugged. “It’s just a bit—weird—ordering people around.”

“Weird?”

“I don’t like it.”

Snape looked at him for a moment. “Maybe you’ll get used to it.”

Harry doubted that very much.