When Harry woke up, he remembered nothing about his nightmare the previous night. He casually sat up to get his glasses, slipped them on, blinked a time or two . . . and then gave a yelp and flinched backward so hard that he collided with the wall beside the bed.

Professor Snape remained calmly sitting in a chair between the desk and the bed, staring intently at Harry as though he was a particularly interesting potions ingredient.

“Pro-professor?” Harry stammered, resisting the urge to rub the back of his head. Had he overslept? I can’t have; otherwise Snape would be yelling and breathing fire at me, rather than just sitting there, he tried to convince himself.

Snape folded his arms and leant back, still studying Harry. Ashamed of the drooping, far-too-large-because-they-had-been-Dudley’s pyjamas, Harry shifted and pulled the duvet up closer to his chest. “Tell me, Mr Potter,” the professor started, “do you often have nightmares?”

Stunned, Harry could only blink at the man in confusion. A slight narrowing of the dark eyes made him aware that Snape was actually waiting for a response. “Uh, no, sir,” he managed to get out.

“Hmm. Then you have no recollection of the one you suffered last night?” Snape raised his eyebrows at Harry.

I had a nightmare? Baffled, Harry shook his head. He hoped he hadn’t screamed too loudly and woken the professor.

“Mmm.” Snape tapped the fingers of one hand briefly on his other arm. “Then perhaps you would be so kind as to inform me of the exact circumstances that happened when you and your little cohorts went after the Stone.”

“Um, I thought everyone knew,” said Harry, blankly. “Professor Dumbledore said it was a complete secret, so the whole school knew.”

“The entire school knew the rumours about what happened,” Snape said, sniffing disdainfully. “I would like your account of the events.”

“Yessir. First was Fluffy. Hagrid gave me a flute he’d made for Christmas—”

It took much less time than Severus thought it should for Potter to tell the tale. It took so little time, in fact, that Severus was sure Potter had left a good three-quarters – the most disturbing parts – of the tale out of his recitation. In essence, all he said was, “We lulled Fluffy to sleep, I caught a key, we won a chess match, logically found the right potion, and then I fought Voldemort and won and he left.”

Which might have told Severus the very basics of what happened, but not nearly enough of what he now suspected had featured very prominently in the boy’s nightmare.

It also left out quite how his friend, Mr Weasley, had ended up unconscious in the Hospital Wing, and how Potter himself had ended up in what, according to Poppy, had been a magic-exhausted coma for three days.

Severus regarded Potter steadily. The boy seemed to believe that Severus would be satisfied with his paltry tale, but Severus was quite content to wait until he realised his error. Although given the way the brat was fidgeting under his scrutiny, it might take a very long time.

“Umm . . .” Potter said, finally. He was twisting his fingers in the corner of the duvet, and flicking occasional glances up through his eyelashes at Severus.

Severus unfolded his arms and leaned forwards to emphasise his point. “Now if you’d care to tell me the full explanation this time,” he said, and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Another long silence. Potter was obviously aware that he should really have been punished more severely than he had been for his actions, and he was apparently expecting that Severus wanted the details to determine what that punishment should be – and who it should extend to.

“Let me make it easier for you,” Severus said, a snarl tainting the edge of his voice. “Start with how exactly Mr Weasley gained his concussion.”

“It was the chess set,” Potter said with a sigh, finally, after a moment of twisting his hands together. “We had to take the place of some of the pieces, see? Ron was a knight . . .” His voice trailed off for a moment, and the boy smiled faintly, obviously remembering. “He was brilliant!” he continued, his voice stronger. “Ron’s brilliant at chess; he always beats me. But then . . . the only way we could checkmate the other king was if Ron sacrificed his knight.”

Severus sat back again. He’d seen the giant chess set that Minerva had transfigured out of large oak trees, and he knew just what happened to the sacrificed pieces in wizard’s chess. It wasn’t hard to guess just how Mr Weasley’s sacrifice had taken place. The boy had been lucky to escape with just a concussion.

And that is no doubt a large part of Potter’s nightmare, Severus thought. The fact that his friend could have suffered worse than that.

He opened his mouth to continue his questioning, but was interrupted by a loud gurgle from Potter’s stomach. The boy flushed a bright red, and scrunched himself down as though that would help. With a sigh, Severus realised that he’d have to wait until another time to discover what else he wanted to know.

“We will discuss the rest of this another time,” he informed Potter, getting to his feet and moving the chair back to where it had been, pushed in against the desk. “You may get your own breakfast, Potter; I have already had mine. I shall be in my lab until lunchtime, which is your responsibility, remember. Until then, you may start on your summer homework.”

“Yessir,” Potter whispered, as Severus turned and stalked out of the room and down the stairs.

Once inside his lab, Severus cast several locking charms on the door – couldn’t be too careful with a Potter around – and advanced towards the small fireplace that was set into one wall. It was only large enough for someone’s head to fit in, as Severus had no wish to be blown to kingdom come because some idiot who insisted on coming through hadn’t brushed off all the soot properly.

“Headmaster’s office, Hogwarts,” he called, throwing in a pinch of Floo powder.

“Severus?” Albus’ head appeared in the shimmering green flames, peering at Severus curiously. “Nothing else has happened, has it?”

“No,” Severus admitted, through gritted teeth. “Albus, must the brat stay here? Surely there are other people who could look after him?”

“My dear boy, are you actually admitting that you are not up to the job of protecting one eleven year old boy?” Albus asked, the twinkle in his eyes increasing.

Severus scowled and folded his arms across his chest, glaring down into the fireplace at Albus. “Of course I’m able to,” he growled. “I just don’t want to!”

“Alas, we must all put up with things that annoy us on occasion,” said Albus, serenely. “That’s life, my boy!”

Resisting the incredibly strong urge to kick Albus’ head – which would only injure his own foot – Severus scowled even harder. “Spare me the platitudes,” he sneered. He paused for a second, wondering about something that he hadn’t had the chance to ask Albus before, mainly because Albus hadn’t given him a chance before steamrollering over him with plans to foist Potter off on him. “Why did the removal of Potter’s relatives come as such a surprise to you?” he asked, finally. “Your note to me said Arabella—”

“Ah.” For the first time in what had to be several years, Albus actually looked abashed. “It’s true that Arabella reported no accident involving the Dursleys; I’m afraid the rest was my conjecture alone. I had not asked further than whether they had been injured.”

Severus raised an eyebrow at the headmaster. Usually it was other people twisting his words to suit themselves; this made a change.

“Still, I’m not certain that here is best for Potter,” Severus said. “He had a nightmare last night, Albus. Was he seen before he left the Hospital Wing?”

“Of course he was,” Albus protested. “You really think Poppy would have let him go otherwise?” Just as Severus opened his mouth to explain that he’d meant had Potter seen someone about the emotional trauma he’d obviously gone through, a contemplative look flitted across Albus’ face. “You say he had a nightmare; he was seeing Voldemort?”

Severus felt his mind go very still. There was something . . . not quite right with the way Albus had phrased that. Almost as though Albus had expected dreams of some sort. Dreams specifically involving the Dark Lord.

“Inasmuch as he saw the Dark Lord inhabiting Quirrell, yes,” he replied, slowly. “You were expecting something else?”

“Mmm, no matter if it was just a regular dream,” said Albus. Severus had the impression that if he could see Albus’ hands, one of them would have been waving in dismissal.

“Should I be expecting something else, Albus?” he said, his voice low as though there was a chance of anyone overhearing.

“No, no,” Albus replied, cheerfully. “I’m sure it would have happened by now if it was going to.” His face suddenly half-turned and disappeared as he looked over his shoulder at something behind him in his office. “I’m afraid I must go, Severus,” he said, turning back. “There was nothing else?”

Severus barely managed to shake his head once before the headmaster disappeared from the fire, and the green flames fizzled back down to nothing and vanished, leaving the fireplace as cold as Severus felt.

The headmaster was hiding something from him – something important, and possibly vital if he was to safeguard the brat over the summer.

Severus hated risking his life without all available knowledge.

Harry entered the kitchen warily, but there was no sign of Snape. There was also no sign of Hedwig. Harry was fairly disappointed by that – he’d hoped that his friends would have written back as soon as they heard about his change of circumstances. Okay, Hermione might be writing a whole book to me, but Ron’s family have their own owl, Harry thought. Of course, considering how much Ron didn’t like writing anything, then perhaps he shouldn’t expect a swift response from that quarter.

Rummaging through the cupboards, Harry idly narrowed down his choices for lunch whilst hunting for breakfast. As he ate his way through a bowl of porridge – much thicker than Snape had made it yesterday – and two slices of toast, he scribbled a quick list of groceries he thought would be good on a scrap of parchment. He didn’t think Snape would appreciate the list, and he wasn’t quite brave enough – or stupid enough – to hand it to the man, but at least he had it ready if he did get the chance.

Once the kitchen was back looking as though nobody had touched anything, Harry scurried upstairs to get his homework, deciding to spread it out downstairs. If it has to be done to Snape’s satisfaction, then Potions had better be first! he thought, wincing at the very thought of how long it could take to do the work to Snape’s ‘satisfaction’. Snape was no doubt a teacher who would measure how long the writing was, not the parchment.

Lying on his stomach on the floor, Harry was about to dip his quill into the inkpot so he could write the essay’s title when a thought struck him. Snape’s satisfaction would also no doubt include the physical state of his essay, which meant no crossing words out, or squeezing them in here, there and everywhere as he thought of something to include three paragraphs after he should have.

Frowning to himself, Harry slowly lowered the quill to the floor and stared down at his pile of parchment. It wasn’t a big pile, and it didn’t sound as though Snape was planning on going to Diagon Alley any time soon, so it would be difficult for him to get more if he messed this up.

What I need, Harry slowly realised, is a Muggle notepad. He pushed himself up onto his knees, and then sat down on the floor, crossing his legs, to think this through. He didn’t have any Muggle paper himself. He couldn’t transfigure anything into some, because he didn’t know how. Snape was locked away in his lab for the next several hours, and he would not appreciate Harry interrupting him for that. Equally, he would expect to see something when he came out at lunch time. Lack of paper would not prevent an explosion over Harry’s ‘laziness’. He could always ask Hermione to send him some, but Hedwig still hadn’t returned, and he had no other way of contacting his friend.

He briefly thought of asking the neighbours, but discarded that because one, Snape would kill him if he was gone when Snape emerged from his lab – and with his luck, he definitely would be – and two, the neighbours would question why he couldn’t just go out and buy his own paper.

Sighing, Harry looked at his books, mentally going over the list of what assignments he had. Most of them required an essay, even History of Magic. The only subject that didn’t – mainly because the professor had been, uh, indisposed – was Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Ruefully reflecting that it really wasn’t as though Professor Quirrell had taught them much of anything anyway, Harry picked up his Defence textbook, and began to read from the beginning.

Harry was so engrossed in the textbook – much more interesting than Quirrell had ever made anything sound – that when Snape cleared his throat in a tone that meant he’d been doing so for some time, Harry jumped at least a foot off the floor.

“Sir, I—” Horrified, Harry realised that if Snape was out of his lab, it must be lunch time. Frantically trying to decide what he could make quickly, he scrambled to his feet, ignoring the dropped book. “I’m so sorry – I was just – I didn’t mean – I’ll just –” he stuttered, inching his way around to try and get past Snape into the kitchen.

Snape caught him by the arm. “Potter, stop babbling,” he snapped, impatiently. “It had occurred to me that I need to go shopping for groceries,” he continued, letting go of Harry. “I doubt you can be trusted to remain here alone without getting into mischief whilst I am gone, therefore you will be coming with me.”

“Um, okay,” Harry agreed, slowly. He cast a quick glance around for the scrap parchment he’d written his list on before. Snape still wouldn’t appreciate it, but just in case . . . “Er, where exactly will we be going, sir?” he suddenly thought to ask. Perhaps it was somewhere that he could get the notepads he’d so sorely need.

“A farmer’s market in Berwick,” Snape replied, and gestured for Harry to step closer to him. “Since I know where I’m going, we can apparate there.”

Gulping – he wished he hadn’t made that porridge quite so thick this morning – Harry moved closer to Snape, and resisted the urge to wince as Snape took a tight grip on his shoulder. In the next second, they were gone.

Severus apparated them to a narrow alley just around the corner from the market itself. The place was still fairly busy, but not as crowded as it would have been first thing in the morning, when people arrived early to get the best and freshest things.

As soon as they arrived, Potter’s knees tried to give way. Only Severus’ grip on his shoulder ensured that he didn’t crash to the ground, as he gagged a few times. Severus used his other hand to rummage in his pocket and produced a vial of stomach soother. “Here, Potter,” he offered.

The boy gagged once more, then drew in a long breath and gingerly shook his head. “I think I’m okay now, sir,” he managed.

“Take it anyway,” Severus ordered, eyeing the boy and how pale he’d gone. “It will help when we return home.”

“Yessir,” Potter muttered, and took the vial from Severus.

“Now then,” started Severus, as Potter gulped down the potion, “you are not to go wandering off, Potter. Stay close to me at all times. I know exactly what I want, and where to get it, and I will not keep stopping while you examine some sugar-drenched or shiny thing.”

“No, sir,” agreed Potter, and handed the vial back to Severus. He paused, and bit his lip nervously. “Um, sir?” he asked. “Could we get some, uh, notepads, please?”

Severus felt his eyebrows rise. “Notepads? You mean . . .” he lowered his voice, despite there being nobody else in the alley with them, “Muggle paper?” Potter nodded, briefly. “Is your stack of parchment not good enough?”

“It’s just . . . I want to make notes first, so I know what needs to go in my essays, but I don’t have enough parchment for that and the essays, too.” The boy flushed, and looked down at his feet.

Severus was stunned. The brat actually planned on doing his homework well?! He’d fully expected that Potter would end up doing the same essay several times over until Severus was satisfied that he had actually done his best, and now Potter was telling him that he wanted to write draft essays first? Severus shook his head, briefly but hard, wondering if his latest potion had exploded, and he was actually lying unconscious and hallucinating on the floor of his potions lab.

“As it’s for a good cause, we’ll see what we can find,” he said, eventually, weakly. Then he mentally smacked himself and straightened his spine. “Come along, Potter,” he added, and without checking behind him to see if the boy was following him – he knew Potter would – Severus strode out of the alley and around the corner to the marketplace.