Harry woke slowly. He felt surprisingly well-rested and quite comfortable and was idly considering lying where he was for a little while to see if he could drift back to sleep. It was at this point that he realised that he didn’t exactly know where he was. Blinking uncertainly, he peered out from underneath the thick comforter that he was snuggled into.
His immediate surroundings were entirely unfamiliar. He was lying on a sofa in someone’s sitting room, this much was clear. He tried to recall his last waking memory and could only remember sitting in a carriage on the Hogwarts Express with his friends, on his way back to Surrey for Christmas. But this was not Privet Drive. The room was small, dark and appeared at first glance to be somewhat neglected. Straight in front of him, a large fireplace (currently unlit) was flanked on either side by floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases that were filled to bursting with books. A tatty Axminster carpet in faded browns and creams covered the floor and a spindly-legged side table overflowed with a stack of books and spare pieces of parchment. Between the side table and a small, grime-covered window sat a squat, dark brown leather armchair which, Harry noted in alarm, was currently occupied.
Professor Severus Snape’s angular form was stretched out in the chair, legs askew and arms draped limply over the worn armrests. In this tranquil posture, the man appeared completely unintimidating. His head was thrown back against the headrest and his dark, oily hair flopped back from his cheeks so that the hook-nosed profile was clearly on display. Snape’s jaw hung down, his mouth slightly open and relaxed in sleep and it suddenly occurred to Harry that the stern professor was quite a bit younger than he normally appeared when he was stalking about the dungeons with a deadly scowl on his face.
At that moment, the events of yesterday afternoon came rushing back with an awful clarity: Snape coming across Harry asleep on a bench at the train station; the man’s rage at his apparent carelessness and the cruel grasp of a long-fingered hand on Harry’s shoulder; and then the awful feeling when the professor had pulled them both out of sight and Apparated with him to…somewhere. Delusion fought with reality as Harry tried to recall the events that followed. His memory was quite hazy. He shrugged in dismissal of the lost time. The important thing was that he was now lying on a couch, wrapped in an orange floral duvet that looked as if it had come straight from 1974, staring at the unexpected and disconcerting sight of a lightly snoring Professor Snape.
Harry was filled with horror and squirmed a little when he realised the extent of his predicament. A sudden, pressing need to visit the bathroom meant that he could not simply sink down into his bedclothes and attempt to disappear. He had to get up, soon, or face an altogether too embarrassing accident.
There was something else strange about the situation, if things could get any stranger than waking up in his Potions professor’s sitting room. Harry realised that he wasn’t wearing his glasses, yet he could see perfectly clearly. His default action upon waking was always to fumble for his glasses in an attempt to bring the world back into sharper focus, but that hadn’t been necessary on this occasion. Harry lifted his right hand to his face to double-check that the round frames were not there and was met with an even greater shock. The hand that moved towards his eyes was…well…not his hand. That is to say, it was attached to his arm, and when he thought about wriggling his fingers, the digits responded as they should, but everything else about it was completely wrong.
Harry sat completely still and stared at his hand in shock. The unfamiliar appendage was small, really small, the fingers long and slender in comparison to his usually broad and slightly stubby ones and the skin several shades paler than his usual skin tone. In a panic, he sat up with a gasp and swung his legs out from under his covers and realised in horror that it wasn’t just his hands that were significantly altered in both size and appearance. With his legs stretched completely out in front of him, Harry’s bony ankles barely jutted out past the edge of the seat cushion.
Scrabbling to free himself from the duvet, he scooted to the edge of the sofa and landed with an “oof”, his hands and knees braced against the grubby carpet. Unfortunately, his panicked exit from the sofa and his less-than-graceful landing on the floor had also disturbed the only other occupant of the room.
“Hmm, you are finally awake, I see.”
Wincing, Harry looked up at where his professor now sat observing him as if he were a rather interesting specimen to be dissected and added to a potion. He felt that he was breathing too loudly in the otherwise silent room.
“Ah…” was the only sound that emerged from Harry’s trembling lips and tight throat as he remained on all fours, still staring up at Snape with an expression of abject terror on his face.
“Articulate as ever, Potter,” was the older man’s sardonic greeting.
“Pr- Profess…I – ahm…er…something’s not right!” Harry voice sounded tremulous and high-pitched, even to his own ears. He shifted his weight back onto his haunches and waved his hands urgently in Snape’s general direction, as if this explained what he could not put into actual words in his flustered state.
“Control yourself, or I shall be forced to dose you with a Calming Draught,” the professor smirked nastily as he adjusted himself into a more dignified sitting position. “I am aware of your – little – predicament, Mr. Potter,” he drawled. “Let me reassure you that there is nothing accidental about your current physical condition. In fact, the Headmaster himself insisted that it was quite necessary.”
Harry wasn’t sure what to make of this new information, however, he realised that he needed to take a few deep breaths and get his emotions under control. He did not want to give this man any ammunition that he might use against Harry back at Hogwarts, especially in front of the Slytherins. Gulping in air and then slowly exhaling, he looked straight into Snape’s narrowed gaze. The black irises continued to scrutinise him as they had done ever since Harry had inadvertently woken the man. There was something different to the usual cold contempt that Harry was used to seeing expressed in the dark gaze of his most hated professor, but before he could really pin down the unidentified emotion, the impassive mask was back in place and Harry was sure that he had imagined any perceived difference.
“As the Headmaster has deemed fit to leave me to clean up his mess,” the dark-haired wizard sighed impatiently and folded his arms across his chest, assuming a posture similar to the one he might hold whilst lecturing a NEWT Potions class. “I had best explain your circumstances in terms that even a cretin such as yourself can understand,” he sneered at Harry’s crouching form. “You have been dosed with a rare and highly legislated potion, the result of which is…well…you seem to have already noted certain key differences in your appearance.”
“Yeah - I’ve shrunk!” Harry squeaked indignantly.
“Mr. Potter,” Snape drawled in an irritated fashion, rolling his eyes. “The potion has merely reversed the progression of aging in your body at a cellular level. You have not shrunk, as you so ineloquently phrase it. Although, I suppose it is true that you are certainly somewhat reduced in stature; it is an expected consequence of the fact that your current physical age is approximately one decade less than it was this time yesterday. The result is that you are currently physically aged around 5 years old.”
Harry could do nothing but tremble as he realised the extent of his predicament. Somehow, for some unknown reason, and with absolutely no consultation, Professor Dumbledore had apparently made a decision that had extreme repercussions for Harry. He was now 5 years old.
Slowly, on legs that were so shaky that they could barely support him, Harry stood and looked down at himself in absolute dismay. He really was just a small child! He stood barely taller than the arm of Snape’s chair. Strangely, the unfamiliar pyjamas he wore seemed to fit him well, despite his considerably smaller frame. As he inspected his appearance more closely, Harry could clearly see and feel that the body that he now inhabited was significantly different to that of his teenaged self. His stomach churned, and he could feel a burning sensation building in his throat.
“The Aetate Mutatio Elixir is a powerful decoction that is generally not available to the wizarding public,” Snape continued his lecture, apparently oblivious to the emotional and physical distress that Harry was currently experiencing. “Of course, as a highly qualified and experienced Potions Master, I found little difficulty in brewing the potion myself, once we were able to locate the correct ingredients – “
“You brewed it?” Harry snapped out of his nauseated self-inspection to stare at his teacher in disbelief.
“Yes, Potter, I brewed it! Who else do you think Professor Dumbledore would entrust with such a delicate –“
Harry’s horror at the situation was quickly transforming into rage. “So I have you to…to thank for turning me into a…a baby?”
Snape snorted.
“You are not a baby,” he frowned and leaned closer towards Harry in order to give him closer inspection. “You are, however, quite small for a five-year-old.” He paused thoughtfully and seemed to forget Harry was in the room. “Perhaps an unexpected interaction between the dragonfly thorax and the Nux Myristica…”
Harry barely knew how to respond to this and opened his mouth to say something that he would certainly later regret, when his earlier need to visit the bathroom became more urgent.
“Erm, Professor Snape,” he muttered. “I really need to use the lavatory, right now.”
Snape raised an eyebrow and sneered at Harry. “Through that door,” his professor gestured to the hallway behind Harry’s settee, “and it is the first door on your left.”
Rushing to escape the awkwardness of the entire situation and increasingly aware of his full bladder, Harry hastened to follow the directions and was soon feeling a great deal more comfortable. Moving to wash his hands at the bathroom sink, he was again reminded of his sudden physical limitations when he found himself unable to reach the tap. Sighing in frustration and anger, he whirled around and stalked back to Snape’s sitting room to call for the man’s assistance.
“I can’t reach the tap,” he muttered, all bravery and bluster having deserted him as he entered the room.
“Indeed?” Came the uncharacteristically absent-minded response. Snape had not moved at all from his armchair and was hastily scribbling something onto one of the crumpled pieces of parchment laying on top of the side table. Harry had little doubt that the Potions Master was noting down unexpected interactions between ingredients in the potion that had effectively de-aged the Boy-Who-Lived, shrinking him down to what felt to be roughly the size of a knut.
Harry scowled at the thought that he had apparently become one of Snape’s research experiments. When Snape simply continued with his notations, Harry sighed in frustration and fidgeted with his pyjama top. “Snape, I’m too small to reach it.”
The man looked up distractedly and now allowed his gaze to travel slowly up and down Harry’s altered form with a hint of amusement evident in his expression. “I believe that somewhere in that redundant statement, a more respectful form of address for your teacher was quite absent…”
“Sorry, Sir. If you could please, I don’t know, conjure a footstool or something, I would really appreciate your help!”
Harry scowled at the floor, humiliated. “And then,” he looked up at the professor, took a deep breath and spoke firmly. “Then, I want some more information about exactly what it is that you and Professor Dumbledore have done to me.”
***
Severus had to admire the determination, the sheer gall of the boy. That he dared to speak to a Hogwarts Professor in such a disrespectful way should not be a surprise – the Chosen One seemed to swan through his interactions with everyone in an unbelievably arrogant manner, from common House Elf to powerful Dark Lord.
Sweeping past the diminutive form of Potter, Severus entered the bathroom and wordlessly transfigured a hair comb from the medicine cabinet into a blue plastic footstool. He placed it in front of the sink and bowed mockingly to the moody little child who had trailed into the room behind him.
“Prince Potter, your footstool awaits.”
The boy scowled heavily and stepped up to clumsily fumble with the tap and wash his hands under a thin stream of water that leaked reluctantly into the worn sink. Looking up at the mirror as Potter finished this chore, Severus observed the boy’s reaction to his own reflection with a detached interest as the child suddenly froze and gasped, staring at himself in disbelief. A small hand reached up to touch a rounded cheek, sweeping over curved, narrow lips that still hung slightly open in shock. The other hand joined the investigation, brushing past the sweeping shell of the exposed ear and smoothing over soft the jet-black fuzz that lay close to his scalp in a buzz cut. The now dark-brown eyes were wide with wonder, one narrow eyebrow raised quizzically as Potter turned slowly to face his professor.
“What happened to me?” There was no demand evident this time, and the quiet tone betrayed very little emotion other than simple wonderment.
Severus waved his hand imperiously, as if he could barely be bothered responding to the question. “It is merely a disguise. A glamour, in addition to the de-aging effects of the Aetate Mutatio Elixir. Neither are permanent.”
The boy had already turned back to consider his reflection more critically. “It’s a pretty damn effective disguise.”
“Language, Mr. Potter.”
The pointed chin tilted up as the inspection continued. “I look a bit like you. Like I could be your son,” the boy said slowly, realisation finally flooding through the childish face.
“Oh, no way…no bloody way!”
***
Dolores Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic, was feeling slightly miffed. She smoothed the lapel of her pink cashmere frock coat to rid it of any stray soot from the Ministry Floo Network and sniffed dismissively at the other witches and wizards on their morning commute who were bustling through the Atrium around her.
Despite her irritation, it was good to be back at the Ministry after her unexpected…absence. Dolores closed her eyes for the briefest of moments and shuddered as the clacking of boot heels echoing against the tiled floors assailed her senses. A sense memory of the damp scent of mouldering leaf litter surrounded her.
‘No,’ Dolores thought emphatically. ‘This is not real. There are no centaurs here!’
She nervously cleared her throat as she straightened her posture and opening her eyes again, continued her passage towards the lifts. She carefully averted her eyes from the recently repaired Fountain of Magical Brethren and resolved once again to have words with the Minister over replacing it with something altogether more suitable.
Dolores turned her mind back to more pressing issues. She had plans to see to. Clever plans that she intended to engineer through to their triumphant completion. Unfortunately, that tinkering twit of a Headmaster had yet again managed to interfere. It was…vexing. Feeling her jaw clench in anger, Dolores slowed her steps for a moment and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly to the count of ten.
‘There now,’ she thought to herself, forcing her small mouth to turn upwards in a parody of a sweet little smile. ‘Keep calm! No need to get worked up over problems that can be easily eliminated…sooner or later.’
She thought back to her careful manipulations that had so far failed to bear fruit. She had forced herself to carry on a civil communication with those loathsome Muggle relatives of Harry Potter, fully intending that her efforts would result in full Ministry custody of the Boy-Who-Lived-to Cause-Chaos. In fact, she had been successful in bringing the Muggles around to her way of thinking. It had been ridiculously easy. By the time she had finished furnishing Vernon Dursley with a vivid description of Mr. Potter’s many character flaws and described the unfortunate mental afflictions that plagued the boy, the man had seemed quite happy to be rid of any responsibility for him.
But then Albus Dumbledore had stuck his abnormally long and crooked nose in where it, quite frankly, was not wanted or desired and had whisked the boy away at the eleventh hour to Merlin only knew where.
Dolores was nothing if not persistent. She intended to make good use of young Mr. Potter in her rise to the top at the Ministry. That meddlesome boy owed her dearly for her recent fall from grace. If it also meant besting Albus Dumbledore, well, so be it. It would give her a great deal of pleasure, in fact, to do so, given that the man had humiliated her at the unfortunate end of her tenure as Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Oh yes, Dolores Umbridge had ways and means of getting what she wanted. And right now, more than anything else, she wanted Harry Potter under her control and safely contained. She nodded to herself in satisfaction as she reached one of the lifts. It was time to call in a few favours.
She allowed herself a contented giggle as she thought of her one of her old Slytherin cohorts, Bertram Blundersby, current Head of the Admissions Department at St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. She had always known that connection would come in handy one day.
As the lift doors opened onto the corridor to her office, Dolores was already penning her missive to Blundersby in her head, a smug smirk on her lips.
***
Harry squirmed restlessly on a worn vinyl chair in Snape’s grotty kitchen and frowned. He was alone in the room; earlier that afternoon, Snape had grasped him firmly by the wrist and tugged him through the passageway before depositing him unceremoniously at the dining table, commanding that he ‘stay here and do not move until my return’.
The man had then stalked from the room and slammed the door shut behind him. In such a small house, sound travelled easily and Harry had not had to strain his ears very hard to hear Snape muttering something under his breath shortly prior to the whoosh of a Floo. Silence had followed.
That had been some time ago. Hours ago, in fact.
That series of events had been the completion to an absolutely blazing row between himself and Snape when the full extent of Harry’s predicament had become evident. Admittedly, having now had some time to think on his actions, Harry felt a little ashamed of his tantrum. It was just that seeing himself in the mirror like that, transformed into someone else, the cold and impassive reflection of Snape sneering at him from above his now practically bald head…well, it was all a bit of a shock to say the very least.
Harry had felt shaken to his very core. Not only because he now vaguely resembled a very youthful version of the man that he both feared and despised in equal measure, but because he felt so betrayed by the Headmaster. He expected Snape to behave in sneaky, sly, snarky Slytherin ways. But Dumbledore? Why had he given permission for the Potions master to experiment on Harry with some horrible potion that had such terrible consequences? No, ‘given permission’ was the wrong wording altogether. As Snape had coldly informed him, he had been ordered by the Headmaster to carry out the act. It was a betrayal of the worst kind.
Harry now turned his attention back to the room he currently occupied. Despite the somewhat pedestrian and Muggle appearance of the grim little kitchen, something about the room reminded Harry uncomfortably of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Perhaps, he pondered, the memories of an unhappy family life had imbued themselves into the very walls of both residences. And wasn’t the kitchen supposed to be the heart of the home?
Harry rolled his eyes at his own maudlin and clichéd thinking. If anyone knew of an unhappy home life, it was Harry, but the kitchen at 4 Privet Drive had always just felt, well, like a kitchen. A particularly sterile and orderly one, true, but there was nothing inherently dark and brooding about that space. Not like here. Or Grimmauld Place.
It had occurred to Harry over the course of the preceding hours that he was entirely free to get up and move about the house while Snape was absent. He sincerely doubted that the professor had set up nanny cams to monitor the interior of his home. Harry snorted at the thought of the dark wizard fiddling to fit a set of ‘Double A’ batteries into the rear-end of some innocuous looking teddy bear before setting it upon his mantel.
Refocusing his thoughts, Harry chewed on his lip as he thought of the many complex and advanced monitoring spells that Snape very likely had cast prior to his abrupt departure through the Floo. He remembered all too well the blind rage that had emanated from his professor after Harry had viewed the man’s pensieved memories of Snape’s complete humiliation at the merciless hands of Sirius and Harry’s own father. He shuddered slightly at the memory.
No, best to stay right where he was. No point in getting any further in Snape’s bad books. Harry needed him to understand that he absolutely could not remain in his current condition. To begin with, Harry felt horribly vulnerable. For Merlin’s sake, he couldn’t even reach the ruddy taps at the sink to get himself a drink of water, let alone reach one of the mismatched mugs from the open shelf that sat tauntingly high up on the wall above the scratched laminate counter. The other issue that Harry had with what had been done to him was that clearly Dumbledore had something in mind when he had cast a glamour to make him resemble a child version of Severus Snape. He shuddered as he thought over the implications of that particular transgression. It had been Harry’s strongly worded objection to this very fact that had led to the row between the professor and Harry.
The words ‘greasy’, ‘big-nosed’ and ‘git’ that had passed Harry’s indignant lips might have further exacerbated things.
In any case, the fact remained that Snape had, after swiftly depositing an unapologetic Harry in the kitchen, stormed off in a huff, leaving him to dwell on the events of the day. He wondered, not for the first time, exactly where the Potions master had gone. It was his fervent hope that Snape had gone to Hogwarts to complain to the Headmaster that he could not spend one more minute in Harry’s ‘insufferable presence’.
Yes, that had to be where he had gone. And he was taking such a long time, because everyone knew that Dumbledore was not a man to be argued with. Harry had confidence, however, that if anyone could stand up to the wily old wizard, it had to be Snape. The man had, after all, refused to tutor Harry in Occlumency after the pensieve incident. Yes, Snape would prevail. He had to.
Lost in these thoughts, it was therefore quite a shock when the door to the kitchen suddenly opened with a protesting creak, revealing the taciturn face of Snape, curtained by somewhat windswept lengths of greasy black hair. Narrowing his eyes as he glared at Harry, the man took a step into the room and unburdened himself of the load he was carrying.
Harry’s heart skipped a beat and his shoulders sank with dismay as he noticed exactly what it was that Snape had placed on the worn and scuffed linoleum floor.
Suitcases. And there were two of them.
Chapter 3