Harry placed his parcel on the bed and stepped back, staring at it as though he expected it to disappear in a puff of smoke. Along with all those figurines, Snape had ended up buying what felt like half the clothes shop for him. It seemed ridiculous that Snape had actually spent that much gold on him. He didn’t think Snape was well off – because he certainly couldn’t see Snape living here out of sentiment – and yet those clothes hadn’t been cheap.

It wasn’t even as though Harry had asked for them. He was used to wearing Dudley’s old hand-me-downs, and the thought of buying new clothes that actually fit him had never occurred to him before. He was still surprised it had occurred to Snape. He’d tried his best to refuse, or at the least choose one inexpensive thing, but the professor had steamrollered right over his objections, plucking things from the racks left and right. Harry had just stood there gaping at him by the end of it, although when Snape had headed for the underwear section, he had blushed a bright, painful red and hastily moved to choose his own. Snape had smirked all the way to the tills after that.

Still in a daze, Harry made his way downstairs just in time for Snape to remind him he was supposed to be doing homework before he disappeared outside to his lab. He sat down, but it took a few minutes before he even thought of reaching for his textbooks. The sheer novelty of anyone actually wanting to buy things for him . . .

Was this what it felt like to have parents?

Harry wished he could ask his friends, but the very question would probably tell Hermione a whole lot more than he wanted it to, and he wasn’t entirely certain Ron would see the situation the same way. After all, with five older brothers, Ron was probably just as used to old, second-hand, hand-me-downs as Harry, except he did have two parents who loved him. No doubt it made a world of difference.

Frowning thoughtfully, Harry resolved to take very good care of his new things. If he was extremely careful – and didn’t grow too much – they could last for a good while, and Snape wouldn’t have to buy him anything else.

He should also make sure that he didn’t do anything to make Snape mad at him anytime soon. Which meant being really quiet, doing what he was told when he was told, and not waking Snape up all the time with his stupid nightmares that he could never properly remember anyway.

Harry nodded firmly to himself, and reached for his History of Magic textbook. He had an essay on the ninth goblin rebellion of 1853 to write.

Two days later, Severus was starting to wonder if he’d somehow managed to break Potter. Granted, the boy hadn’t been running around yelling and screaming, but now he seemed to be trying to blend into the background. He kept all his things neatly together in one place, and every time Severus was in the room with him, he kept shooting sideways glances at Severus as though checking where Severus was.

And he also hadn’t woken Severus with another nightmare the past two nights.

That, more than anything, worr— no, concerned Severus. He scowled to himself. He was in no way worried about the mental health of the Boy-Who-Lived. He was just . . . mildly concerned that Potter’s subconscious had apparently gotten over the events with Quirrell so quickly.

Or, of course, Potter was still having the nightmares and just hiding them from Severus, which was another problem entirely.

The previous evening, Severus had set about finally unpacking all the figurines he’d bought at the collector’s fair. Potter had been curled up at the side of his armchair – not even on the chair, but on the floor beside it, as though trying to hide – and although Severus had caught him flicking continual glances at him from under his eyelashes, the boy had made no move to come and help, as Severus had expected, nor had he asked any questions, which Severus had been sure he would, given his interest at the fair.

If he really had broken Potter, Albus was going to kill him.

Pacing in his lab, Severus was attempting to come up with some kind of action that would resolve whatever stray thought had wormed its way into Potter’s brain this time. Unfortunately, he had much more experience in making his students fear him than he did in comforting them.

Much as he really didn’t want to, it looked as though he had no choice but to call in the cavalry.

“Headmaster’s office, Hogwarts,” he called, resignedly, throwing a pinch of Floo powder into the fire.

When Albus’ head appeared in the flames, Severus was surprised to see that the elderly wizard actually looked tired and frustrated. He opened his mouth.

“Severus!” Albus barked, and Severus closed his mouth again. “Would you kindly remove whatever wards you’ve added that are keeping the owls away!” Albus continued, although it clearly wasn’t a request. “I’ve sent four more to you, and none have come back, nor have you sent the potion I’ve repeatedly asked for, which happens to be time-sensitive!”

“Wh – Albus, wait!” Severus interrupted, waving a hand and using the other to pinch the bridge of his nose. “What are you talking about? What wards? I’ve added nothing.”

“You—” Albus actually looked startled at that. “What do you mean, you’ve added nothing? You must have done!”

“Why would I?” Severus asked, peering at the headmaster. “You said the blood wards would keep Potter safe.”

Albus’ eyebrows rose. “You mean Harry considers that his home now?” he asked, curiously. “I’d just assumed that you were taking precautions.”

“Er—” Severus halted, wrong-footed. “Don’t be daft, Albus; of course Potter wouldn’t consider this his home,” he blustered. Blast it, now he would have to look at putting more protections in place.

“Of course not,” Albus murmured, but he didn’t look convinced. Something behind him distracted the headmaster. “I’m afraid I have to go. If that was all?”

“No, it wasn’t! It—” Severus started, frantically, but it was too late. He was speaking to an empty fireplace. “DAMN IT, ALBUS!” he bellowed, frustrated.

Now how was he supposed to fix Potter?

Harry was doing something wrong. He wasn’t quite sure what, but he knew he was. He’d tried to be good, and to keep out of Snape’s way. After all those years with the Dursleys, he’d thought he’d perfected the art of blending into the background and becoming invisible.

Apparently he’d lost the knack of it.

Snape was now watching him. Constantly. And vaguely suspiciously, as if he thought Harry was up to something. But he hadn’t said anything yet, and Harry’s nerves were winding tighter and tighter, waiting for the inevitable fallout.

It wasn’t helped by the fact that none of his friends had written back to him yet, either. Snape had made a quick trip to Berwick’s Magic Street that morning, and Harry had taken the opportunity to send another letter to Ron and Hermione, plus one to Neville, too. He’d finally remembered to ask whether he was allowed to tell them where he was – just in case that was the problem with writing back to him – and although rather scathing in his response, Snape had agreed. Now it was just a case of waiting to see if proper owl directions made any difference.

So now Harry found himself sitting in his armchair, arms wrapped around his drawn-up knees, and staring at the boxes of figurines that were still stacked against one wall. He’d watched Snape unpack several boxes the previous evening, but although he’d been dying to ask more questions about them, he’d been busy trying to become part of the furniture, and hadn’t dared to so blatantly remind Snape of his presence.

He was severely tempted to start unpacking the rest, but he wasn’t sure where they were supposed to be going – he had no idea what Snape had done with the ones from yesterday – and he rather thought Snape wouldn’t want him touching the figurines in case he damaged any of them.

Slowly, he uncoiled himself and slid off the armchair, before beginning to carefully inch his way across the carpet towards the stacked boxes. Maybe just opening one box for a little look wouldn’t hurt . . .

He became so involved in looking that he never noticed the sound of the back door opening and closing again.

“Ah, good, you’ve started,” Snape’s voice stated from the doorway behind him, causing Harry to jump so hard he bit his tongue. “Here.” A rag appeared from over his shoulder, and Harry hesitantly took it, unsure what it was for. “Just take out each figurine and run the cloth over it,” Snape instructed, and picked up one of the other boxes, placing it beside his own armchair.

Harry just stared at his professor, a bit taken aback by the man’s calm behaviour. Where was the yelling? The demand that he get away from Snape’s precious things before he dirtied them or broke them? The tirade that those things were much better than Harry, and he shouldn’t even think of breathing on them?

“What are you staring at, Potter?” Snape’s voice made Harry jump again, but it still wasn’t the shouting that Harry was expecting. “Or have you changed your mind?”

“Ch-changed my mind?” Harry repeated, stumbling over the words slightly.

“If you don’t want to help with these, I’m sure there are other things you can occupy your time with,” Snape clarified, not looking up from the thin black horse he was currently holding.

“Um,” was all that Harry got out. He looked at the box he’d opened, before his gaze darted back to Snape, and then he slowly reached for one of the figurines. When Snape still made no protest, he gingerly pulled the horse out of the box and gently ran the cloth over it, before setting it aside.

There was silence for a few moments, and gradually, as Harry became more convinced that Snape wasn’t suddenly going to leap up and verbally – or physically – attack him, he began to relax.

He started to study the figurines more closely. The unicorns and the skeletal horses were always in the same colour – silver and black respectively – but the Hippogriffs and the Hippocampus came in a wide range of colours. Strangely, though, the Pegasus ones only seemed to be in three colours, and the same body type was always in the same colour. Harry held a shire-type one in one hand, and a brown one in the other, and peered at them both, trying to work out why the stocky ones were always a pale pink, and why the brown ones were always tall but slender.

“Granians,” Snape said, just as Harry had put down the brown Pegasus to pick up one that was short, slender, compact and grey.

“Sir?” Harry squeaked, relieved that he hadn’t actually been holding the grey one yet, otherwise he surely would have dropped it. Had Snape just sworn at him?

“The grey Pegasus,” Snape said. He held up a grey figurine of his own. “They are Granians. Built and bred for speed.” Setting that one aside, the professor rummaged through the box by his feet and drew out a brown one. “The palominos are Abraxans, and the chestnuts—” Snape’s voice trailed off as he noticed the confusion that was obviously blooming all over Harry’s face. Sighing heavily in exasperation, he rolled his eyes. “The heavy-set Pegasus, Potter. Its coat colour is called palomino. Its breed is an Abraxan. They’re bred in France by the Headmistress of Beauxbatons, their version of Hogwarts, usually to pull the carriages.”

The shire-types are French? Somehow, Harry thought they looked more English, although he supposed other countries were allowed their heavy horses, too.

“The chestnuts,” Snape carried on, but then interrupted himself with another sigh. “The brown ones,” he said, instead, with a huff of air through his nose, “are called Aethonans. They are bred here in Britain. I believe there is a large stud farm of them somewhere in Cambridgeshire, with a smaller one just outside of Belfast, in Northern Ireland.”

“And what are these, sir?” asked Harry, pointing the shire-type – no, the Abraxan – he was holding at a skeletal black one.

“Those are Thestrals,” Snape informed him. “They pull the Hogwarts’ carriages, and the herds live in the Forbidden Forest. Hagrid is in charge of them. Thestrals are mostly invisible, unless you have seen death, so most people consider them to be evil, or monstrous.”

“That seems a bit unfair,” Harry muttered.

He hadn’t really meant it for any ears but his own, so he startled when Snape gave a snort of derision. “Most people are unfair, Potter,” he said, briskly. “Life can be unfair.”

Not wanting to get into a debate on that – since, yeah, he was fairly sure that being fêted as the Boy-Who-Lived when his parents died to save him was unfair – Harry leaned forward and picked up another skinny black horse, this one with wings. “Sir?” he queried, holding it up so that Snape could see it.

“Yes, Potter, that is a Thestral,” Snape said, turning his attention back to the figurine he was holding. “There was an error in the production line, and quite a lot of Thestrals without wings were made.”

Silence fell again. Snape finished his box, but instead of getting another one, he sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, one hand raised to tap his index finger against his mouth, watching Harry. Harry could feel himself tensing up again.

“It was because of your mother that I began collecting them,” Snape said, finally, in a fairly quiet, neutral tone of voice.

Harry almost dropped the horse he was holding, but thankfully he managed to catch it in time. “My moth—” His voice broke, and he had to clear his throat before he could start again. “You knew my mother, sir?”

“We were . . .” Snape paused, as though trying to find words, “. . . friends, when we were children. She grew up in the nicer part of Spinner’s End. When it had a nicer part,” he added in an undertone. Then he shook his head as though to focus, and concentrated on Harry again. “My mother had a few figures, ones that she’d found at various markets. Lily was fascinated by them once she saw them, as her own mother – your grandmother, Potter – had some Breyers of her own. Up until we were fifteen, your mother insisted on dragging me off to various fairs and markets, on the off-chance she might find some.”

Harry was fascinated by the tale, although the image of Snape being forced to go traipsing sulkily around markets and car boot sales made him want to giggle. All of the previous year, everyone had told him just how much like his father he was and all the things his father had done, but nobody ever much mentioned his mother.

“How many did she have, sir?” he asked, trying to imagine his mother as a young girl, oohing and aahing over various horse models.

“The last I knew, she had almost thirty,” said Snape. “I presume she had more than that by the time she – by the time she died.” He cleared his throat, roughly.

Harry pretended not to notice the way his professor’s voice had broken. It seemed the man had cared deeply about his mother, even if – by his own admission – they hadn’t been close for what sounded like several years. Instead, Harry frowned, curious. “What happened to them all, sir?” he asked. “To all of my parents’ things?”

“Most of your parents’ belongings were destroyed when – ah, when the house was destroyed.” Snape cleared his throat again, and then frowned himself. “Some of the Potter heirlooms may have been placed in a Gringotts’ vault for safekeeping, in which case anything is likely still there. As for anything else . . . it’s possible some of it may have gone to your aunt.”

“I doubt it lasted long then,” Harry murmured, sadly. Aunt Petunia hadn’t even liked him – he really didn’t think she’d have appreciated any of her sister’s belongings, whether they were obviously magical or not.

Snape drummed the fingers of one hand against his arm. “I suppose,” he said, in a very long-suffering tone, “that if you really so wish, I can check with the headmaster as to any . . . items that may remain.”

“Really?” Harry instantly perked up. “Oh, yes, please, sir!”

“Very well.” Snape gave a jerky nod, then cast a quick tempus. “I have a potion that needs checking. You should probably clean up before dinner, Potter.” Getting to his feet, Snape waved his wand at the figurines that littered the floor, and they all vanished. Harry blinked at the spaces where they’d been. Wow, I can’t wait until I can do that! he thought.

Following Snape out into the back yard, Harry paused to look up at the surrounding sky whilst the professor disappeared into his lab. Despite thoroughly searching, there was still no sign of Hedwig, or indeed, any owl at all. Harry’s shoulders slumped in disappointment. He hoped the snowy hadn’t gotten lost, or injured, or just plain flown away. It was better than thinking that Hermione was keeping his owl from him on purpose. He also wondered why his friends hadn’t written back to him yet. Didn’t they want to be his friends anymore?

Missing his pet, Harry ducked into the outhouse. He had just finished when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Surprised, Harry turned his head. Up in the corner of the roof was a large spider web. Its occupant had apparently come down to take a look at the intruder of its domain.

“Hello, there!” said Harry, softly. He smiled at the spider. He’d never been scared of the arachnids, as his cupboard had been full of them when he was little. Instead, they’d become his friends and playmates – at least until Dudley had reached in one day, trying to pull him out, and a baby one had run across Dudley’s pudgy hand.

Dudley had reacted as though someone had tried to chop his hand off, running screaming into the kitchen, bawling his eyes out. Aunt Petunia had come to see what all the fuss was about, and had then added to the noise by succumbing to hysterics of her own.

When Uncle Vernon had arrived home that night, he’d had a simple solution to the problem. He’d simply had them unwind the garden hose to its full length, and had then blasted the inside of the cupboard – and Harry – with water for half an hour. Despite it being the height of summer, the water had been freezing, and Harry had spent the next fortnight battling to do his chores through the foggy haze of pneumonia.

Reaching up, Harry now allowed this spider to advance onto his hand. He smiled as the drag of its legs across his palm tickled. Shouldering his way outside, Harry almost bumped into Snape, who was exiting his lab with a cauldron floating along behind him.

“What are you doing, Potter?” asked Snape, suspiciously, eyeing Harry’s cupped together hands.

“Look what I found, sir!” Harry replied, enthusiastically, and lifted his upper hand to show the professor.

Snape peered closely at the spider on Harry’s hand. “An Araneus diadematus!” he exclaimed. “Marvellous!” And before Harry could even think of stopping him, Snape had whisked the spider off his palm and dropped it into the boiling cauldron behind him. “Just what I was missing,” he said, happily, and strode off towards the house, the cauldron bobbing merrily along in his wake.