Harry stood in front of the bookcase, the Abraxan foal in his hand. He’d realised that morning that he could put the foal back, now that it wasn’t in danger anymore, but now that he’d actually come to do it . . . he couldn’t. It felt too much like admitting that Marble was really . . . gone.

He hadn’t slept well the previous night, his dreams constantly replaying the awful moment when the struggling Marble plummeted towards the ground. He wasn’t sure whether he’d actually woken screaming from any of those dreams – he’d certainly screamed enough in them – but if he had, then Snape hadn’t said anything about it. He had, however, allowed Harry to sleep in, even if only for an hour.

Blinking against the sting of tears, Harry eventually crouched down and pushed the foal through the figurines on the bottom shelf, ensuring it was hidden at the very back. Snape entered the room as he was straightening up again, but if the professor had seen what he’d done, he didn’t comment on it.

Instead, he sat in his armchair and sighed heavily. He looked tired, too, Harry thought. “Potter – Harry,” he began, but was interrupted by a muted crack from the backyard. Snape looked frustrated, but Harry just felt relieved. He had a horrible feeling that Snape was going to try and make him talk about what had happened yesterday.

Instead of the headmaster, as Harry was mostly expecting, it was Professor Flitwick that entered the house.

“Filius,” said Snape, blankly, and Harry realised with a tiny jolt that he could actually hear the various emotional tones in Snape’s voice now, that it didn’t just switch between neutral and angry, as it had appeared to all year. Snape was surprised to see Flitwick here.

“Good morning, Severus!” Flitwick said, cheerily. “And to you, as well, Mr Potter. I apologise for not sending a Patronus ahead of me, Severus, but I wanted to take some readings from those wards.”

Snape gestured towards the wall. “Have you managed to discover how to bring them down already?” he asked.

“Mmm, not quite,” Flitwick hummed, facing the wall that Snape had indicated and squaring his shoulders. He brandished his wand, then began waving it in movements that were fairly hypnotic after just a few moments; Harry had to shake his head to snap himself out of the trance he’d fallen into. “I discussed the matter with several of the Hogwarts elves,” Flitwick said, abruptly, and Harry jumped. “They think they can bring the wards down, if the elf – this Dobby – can’t or won't remove them, but not until you’re out of the house, I’m afraid. Something to do with the intent of them.”

Snape scowled for a moment, then gave a sigh. “Well, we’ll be moving to Hogwarts for the start of term preparations in a week’s time anyway,” he said. “After that, they’ll have nine months to disenchant the things—”

If Snape said anything else, Harry didn’t hear it, nor any response Flitwick might have made. He’d just suffered a second, bigger, jolt.

“Start of term preparations in a week,” Snape’s words echoed in his head. That meant that term would soon be starting. But that couldn’t be right. What had happened to the rest of summer?!

Hang on… That meant they’d be leaving Spinner’s End. Leaving the narrow, dingy rooms, leaving the small bedroom, leaving the outhouse, leaving all the figurines.

I don’t want to go.

Shocked, Harry examined this thought. With the Dursleys, he’d always prayed for the school days to start sooner, so he had at least some time where Dudley and his friends couldn’t prey on Harry. It had meant a rest from chores and beatings and extended stays in his cupboard.

Is this what it means to have a home?

A surprised exclamation snapped Harry’s attention back to the two professors, and he blinked several times. The fact that he apparently considered Snape’s house a home could wait until later – much later.

“What happened?” Snape was asking, frowning, his hand hovering close to the sleeve where he kept his wand. “Filius?”

Flitwick’s eyebrows had risen, and his wand movements had stilled. “Something just changed under the wards,” he said. He glanced down at his wand, then began a new set of movements.

Snape frowned harder. “What do you mean, something changed under the wards?” he asked. “And what changed?”

“It looks like another ward has just snapped into place,” said Flitwick. “Unfortunately, it hasn’t affected the house-elf’s ward, but it appears to be a defensive one.”

Harry wondered where that had been before that elf had stopped the owls.

“I shall give these new readings to the Hogwarts elves, as well as the original one,” Flitwick was saying. “Perhaps Albus might be able to shed some light on things, although I suppose it depends on where the house-elf attached the anchor…”

The following conversation descended into technical terms that rapidly went over Harry’s head, and he found himself tuning out. Still reeling a bit from his revelation that he didn’t want to leave Spinner’s End, he suddenly wondered what would have happened if he’d still been at the Dursleys’. Would he have even realised that something was wrong?

And just what does Dobby expect me to do? Harry thought, frowning in confusion. I’m only 12; I couldn’t just not attend school... Even if he had wanted to, his guardian was a professor, for crying out loud! There was no way Snape would have allowed him to go off on his own for the rest of the year.

“—r Potter.” The sound of his name jolted Harry from his thoughts just in time to see Professor Flitwick Disapparate.

Snape sighed. “Take a seat, Potter,” he said, gesturing at the other armchair. “We need to discuss yesterday.”

Harry winced, but sat as directed.

“Now then.” Snape drummed the fingers of one hand on the arm of his chair. “Tell me precisely what happened after I sent you back from Diagon Alley.”

“Umm.” Harry wanted to pause, to pretend to be thinking and maybe stall until Snape got fed up and let him go, but unfortunately the entire scene was fairly well fixed in his memory. “The elf was here when I got back,” he said, reluctantly. “I landed on him.” Shame I didn't squash the rotten thing! something inside him hissed. Harry sort of wished he had; then maybe Marble wouldn’t have been...

Snape suddenly straightened. “It was already inside?” he demanded. “Actually in the house?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry agreed, nodding. Snape frowned but waved for Harry to continue. “It said I shouldn’t go back to Hogwarts, tried to convince me that my friends didn’t want to be friends with me anymore. That was when I realised it’d been stopping the owls getting through.”

“Did it say why you shouldn’t go back?” asked Snape, curiously.

Harry shook his head. “No, sir. It just said bad things were going to happen this year.”

Snape made a noise of disgust. “Of course it couldn’t be more specific,” he grumbled to himself before focusing back on Harry. “Carry on,” he prompted.

“Then it said it’d make sure I didn’t go back, and that’s when it . . . when it gr-grabbed Mar-Marble,” Harry got out. Heat rose in his cheeks as his voice broke at the end of the sentence. He closed his eyes against the renewed prickling in them. It was bad enough he’d already cried in front of Snape yesterday; he didn’t want to do it again.

“Potter . . . Harry,” Snape said after a long moment. “What happened to Marble was not your fault.”

Startled at the mildness – one could almost call it gentleness – in Snape’s voice, Harry’s eyes flew open. The professor was, as expected, looking at him, but for once it wasn’t the strict, flinty gaze it usually was. “But,” Harry began to protest, “the elf was here to stop me—”

“Harry,” Snape said, firmly, and Harry’s voice abruptly stopped working. “I am your professor. Believe me when I tell you that it is not your fault.” Harry remained unconvinced, and Snape apparently read it on his face. “Have I ever absolved you of fault before?” he asked.

Harry’s mouth opened, and then closed again. With any other adult, he would have just thought that they were pandering to him; trying to convince him it wasn’t because of him when everyone knew it really was. Snape, on the other hand, was more likely to accuse him of something that wasn't his fault. So if he was now saying that this whole situation wasn’t Harry’s fault, then . . . .

It really isn’t my fault.

But . . . it had to be, didn’t it? The Dursleys certainly would have agreed it was.

The Dursleys aren’t here anymore. Their opinion doesn’t matter.

It felt like the first Quidditch game he’d played in, when his broom had suddenly gone berserk underneath him, the sudden swoop in his stomach as his centre of balance lurched.

For almost eleven years of his life, as far back as he could remember, the Dursleys’ opinion of him had been set in stone and roughly lower than their opinion on dirt. The surrounding neighbourhood had been full of Petunia’s ‘friends’ – even if they were more like acquaintances – and nobody had ever taken the time to get to know Harry and thereby change their own opinion of him. Even being allowed to go to school hadn’t helped, as Dudley had been big and loud and brash, and had gotten to all the other kids immediately. Harry hadn’t blamed them for not wanting to get beaten up every day; he didn’t want to get beaten up every day, but he hadn’t had a choice.

Snape had originally seemed to be just like the Dursleys, sneering and jeering at Harry for no reason other than for who his parents had been. He hadn’t cared about Harry, hadn’t even seen Harry; he’d been too focused on Potter.

He had occasionally resented the unfairness of it all but in the end, to Harry, it had just been an extension of what he’d been used to from the Dursleys and he’d been mostly able to concentrate on his first ever friends. Snape’s opinion of him – especially once they’d thought he was after the Stone – hadn’t mattered.

But now . . . now Snape was his guardian. Snape had been his guardian for several weeks, and his opinion of Harry had changed. It had improved. He was treating Harry like a regular twelve year old. He had taken Harry somewhere for his birthday. He had brought him a present.

The Dursleys had never done that for him. Tissues and coat hangers and old socks didn’t count. The Dursleys didn’t like him.

The Dursleys would never see him again.

So why would their opinion matter ever again?

Severus studied Potter. The boy had looked as though he was going to argue with Severus about it being his fault what had happened to Marble, but then he’d abruptly frozen. Apparently, some new thought had struck him, as he appeared to be in very deep thought.

Deciding to leave him to it, Severus rose from his chair and stalked across the room to the bookcase where his books on wards were kept. He’d thought the wards he’d placed on the house would prevent any house-elves or anyone with dubious intent from getting in, but Potter had said the house-elf had been inside the house already when he’d been sent back from Diagon Alley.

Which meant that either the house-elf had been crazy enough to find a way around them, or the wards just plain hadn’t worked as advertised. If that was the case, Severus was going to be sending a very scathing letter to the publisher and the author of the warding spell he’d used about allowing the general public to use such things without extensively testing them first to ensure they did what they were designed to.

As he pulled the relevant book off the shelf though, another thought occurred. Their shopping trip to Diagon Alley had been interrupted, however inadvertently, by Lucius Malfoy, and then the situation with Marble and the house-elf and the wards had overridden everything else.

Severus sighed in resignation. With the ward still blocking owls, they would have to return to Diagon Alley in person to get the remainder of Potter’s things. And they would have to return soon. Didn't Lockhart mention some sort of announcement at Flourish and Blotts next week? Severus was not going anywhere near that circus.

A movement from Potter’s direction caught his eye, and Severus turned to see the boy blinking at his chair in bemusement before he caught sight of Severus standing beside the shelf. “Sir?” Potter asked, obviously confused.

A quick mental debate raged. Would it be better to continue with the conversation they’d been having? There were only so many times Severus could tell Potter that what had happened hadn’t been his fault before the words became meaningless, to both of them.

I’m not the person Potter should be talking to, Severus finally decided. He’d discuss the matter with Poppy once they were at the castle; maybe she knew someone suitable. Or I can just shove him at Minerva.

“We will have to return to Diagon Alley,” Severus informed the boy. He scowled down at the still unopened book in his hand. Perhaps a brief look at Flourish and Blotts' ward section would help... “We shall leave in an hour; make sure you’re ready, as we will be going whether you are or not.”

“Um, yessir,” Potter agreed, still sounding confused but also sounding a bit relieved. He shuffled himself to the edge of the armchair, and then paused. “Sir?” he asked. “What if that elf comes back while we’re out?”

“Then it will get a very nasty shock,” Severus said, grimly. He had a potion that he’d been wanting to try out but hadn’t been able to find a suitable candidate for testing. That house-elf would do nicely.

Surprisingly, Potter just nodded before getting to his feet and making his way into the kitchen, presumably to go outside to the outhouse. Severus summoned another book from upstairs before making a quick trip to his lab. He had his own preparations to make.

Diagon Alley was just as crowded as it had been the day before. Harry would never admit it out loud, but he was actually grateful for the tether spell that Snape had once again attached to his wrist. It made getting around so much easier when he could use the space that just naturally opened up for the potions professor.

Flourish and Blotts held more books than Harry had ever seen, including the Little Whinging Public Library and Hogwarts’. Although still crowded with people milling around, it wasn’t quite as bad as it was outside on the street.

“Here.” Harry came to a halt beside Snape and felt the tether disappear from around his wrist. “The Hogwarts books are usually over in that corner there. If you can’t find all the ones on your list – you do have your list with you?” Snape raised an eyebrow at him, and Harry nodded. “—then you will come and find me. I shall be in that section over there.” Snape gestured to an aisle that had a velvet rope stretched across it. “You won’t be able to enter the section; alarms and other unpleasant things will go off if you try. So don't try.”

“No, sir!” Harry agreed, hastily. He’d seen how some of the librarians acted in the Little Whinging library; he didn’t want to know what wizards might do to stop people from looking at books they weren’t supposed to.

Snape looked as though he might say something else, but instead just gave a slight shake of his head and stalked off. Harry briefly wondered what he’d been about to say – Probably something along the lines of 'Don't you dare do anything to damage these priceless books, Potter, or you'll be scrubbing cauldrons in detention until you're Dumbledore's age' – and made his own way over to the corner that Snape had pointed out first.

Pulling the list out from his pocket, Harry studied it. There were a lot of books by this Lockhart person on it. Whoever their Defence Against The Dark Arts teacher would be this year was obviously very fond of him. He sure seemed to have done a lot involving various creatures.

“Harry?”

Startled, Harry spun round, almost dropping his list. “Neville!” he exclaimed.

Neville Longbottom was standing beside an elderly lady, who was wrapped tightly in a fur-lined robe and with a small hat perched on her head. What looked an awful lot like a vulture was attached to the hat, and as the lady tilted her head to peer down her nose at Harry, the bird moved as well. Harry nervously eyed the sharp beak, and took a hasty step back.

“Wow, Harry, I didn’t expect to see you here!” Neville said, his face beaming in delight. The lady beside him cleared her throat, and Neville winced. “Oh, er, Harry, this is my gran, Lady Longbottom. Gran, this is Harry Potter.”

“So I see,” the old lady said, and Harry realised that her eyes were fixed on his scar. He resisted the urge to sigh, and held out a hand instead.

“Pleased to meet you, Lady Longbottom,” he said. Given the look of the elderly witch, he figured the posher his manners were the better.

Lady Longbottom gingerly shook his hand, and dropped it almost immediately. Harry wondered if he should have offered to kiss her hand instead of shake it. “Likewise, Mr Potter,” she said. “Are you here on your own?”

Harry winced at even the thought of having to navigate Flourish and Blotts, not to mention Diagon Alley, on his own. “Um, no, ma’am. I’m here with . . . uh, my guardian. He’s over there,” he informed her, and pointed at the section that Snape had vanished into.

“Good. Neville, you may get your books with Mr Potter here whilst I pay a visit to Gringotts before we attend Madam Malkin. Do not wander off, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Gran. I won’t, Gran, promise!” Neville agreed, nodding his head frantically.

“Hmpf.” With a sound that in someone less stuck-up Harry would have called a snort, Lady Longbottom spun on her heel and strode out of Flourish and Blotts, leaving Neville standing aimlessly beside Harry.