Needless to say, there was little to rival the surge of expressions that twisted Professor Patel's face.

Harry recognised a few. Only a few. Because between finding amusement in a situation that wasn't funny at all and the undoubted wrath he'd face with Snape, there could be only so much he could think.

It wasn't funny at all, yet the darkened cheeks of Patel were all it took to get Harry to laugh, and her stumbling words only ensured his chuckles.

"That is- entirely…what?" she asked, voice thin, weak. Entirely foreign. She stood up, her fingers pressing against her parted lips, "You're not lying?"

Smile and laughter abruptly cut, Harry played with his finger, "I am," he tried, trying to keep his voice from shaking.

He doubted it did any good.

His weak lie couldn't mask his previous laughter, or the flatness of his tone, and Patel's pressed lips told him as much.

She didn't comment. Instead, Harry flinched back when a hand fell on the curve of his forehead.

"May I?"

And she lifted the strands of thick black, gently as though it would tear. Then came a sharp intake of breath, a hand dropping down at the same time Harry averted his gaze.

"Ya Allah.." she tapped along her arm, voice losing its strength until she made an unexpected stand, her arms flying to her sides, "You're alive!"

"Uh," Harry eyed the door, "I suppose I am."

"How are you alive?"

"I've been wondering the same thing, actually. And if someone other than Alexanderia Alexander is willing to tell me the story, I'd love to hear it!"

Patel didn't tell him much, as she believed him to be dead, too. They did fall into a lengthy conversation, however, in which Patel scolded a Snape who wasn't there until Harry reassured her Snape had written to the, uh, Dumble-bore bloke - Dumbledore, Harry - and told him of Harry's existence.

There wasn't much talk, that day. At least, nothing about Harry's… unpleasant past. Instead, Professor Patel woke her brother, who was sleeping in the next room, and she and Harry helped Mr Patel cook an early meal, falling into comfortable conversations that carried on into the table.

Harry found it hard to concentrate on his Shakshuka, and harder to listen to the Patels, eyeing his egg uncomfortably. The attempt to get him earlier had opened the opportunity for unwanted thoughts. Uncle Vernon, Uncle Petunia… the cupboard looming behind their screaming figures. Harry tried to shake his head free of the thought, the fork scraping the bowl as he did so. He dropped the fork, ending the ongoing conversation between the two. Head hanging down, Harry bit down on his lip, fingers itching over the shirt over his arms.

Professor Patel spoke first.

"Harry?" her voice called from in front of him, losing her previous excitement, "Would you like a different meal?"

Feeling foolish and rather ashamed, Harry shook his head, spooning some of the eggs and taking a measly bite, "It's delicious," he told Mr Patel, nodding with a smile, "Thank you."

He was relieved when Mr Patel offered him a wink over his water cup, ripping some of the semi-dry bread and using it to take a bite from the meal. Professor Patel, however, gave a frown, one that was hard to understand, and even harder to dismiss as it quickly lifted into a smile once Harry faced her.

The rest of the meal held no conversation with him. Mostly because he only bothered answering with short replies and gestures. Mostly because he couldn't bring himself to. His hunched shoulders, his undying rapid heartbeat…and under both, a terrible mixture of storming emotions that was still brewing at the end of the meal.

Professor Patel assured him and Mr Patel both that she'd take care of the cleaning up, as she couldn't help with the cooking and ushered them into the living room while she began her chore in the kitchen.

"She's a terrible cook," Mr Patel said once they were inside and it seemed unlikely that Harry would talk.

"What?"

Mr Patel nodded towards the door, a small smile on his lips, "Aisha. She's a terrible cook, and almost set umi's kitchen on fire."

Harry smiled unintentionally, the image of a frantic Aisha pouring a jug of water over the fire coming to mind, "Is the one you're calling umi your… mother?"

"Yes. The same mother who caught her scarf on the fire while Aisha tried to stop the table from burning. Pati wouldn't ask for water from her for a month. That's when I started to help umi in the kitchen."

Harry laughed, imagining a very cautious Snape not asking him to do any chores under similar circumstances before deciding that he'd have more chores to do if he ever burnt the kitchen.

"I can cook too," Harry said, his heart still beating and emotions still at large, but easing with every word, "But I don't think Sn- Professor Snape trusts me to."

"I can tell," Mr Patel said, stretching his arms.

"You can tell he doesn't trust me?"

Mr Patel blinked before his eyes widened in understanding, "Oh, no! You are a good cook. Even though you only cut the onions and tomatoes. My sister doesn't help me with those."

"Can't she use a knife?"

Mr Patel waved a dismissive hand, a sharp smile on his lips while his head turned to the door, "She doesn't like her eyes burning, and says the onions smell worse than my socks."

Letting out a laugh, Harry felt the uneasy tightness of his chest loosen as his body shook with small tremors, his tense shoulders relaxing when Mr Patel went on to say he deliberately made his socks smell bad whenever Professor Patel was particularly infuriating.

"That, however -" he continued with emphasis, eyeing his sister as she came in, carrying with her a small plate, "- Is our secret. Isn't it Harry?"

Professor Patel's eyes narrowed at her brother. She walked past him without another look, placing the plate on the free spot beside Harry, "I suppose I won't ask," she said, grabbing a biscuit from the plate and taking a harsh bite, chewing exaggeratingly hard.

"Mr Patel told me of your brilliant cooking talents, Professor," Harry said, taking an offered biscuit.

"Did he now?"

Mr Patel leaned back in his chair, "Well, brilliant is inappropriate. Though I made no comment on your bakery skills."

"You just want a biscuit."

"You're my favorite and only baker, roohi,"

She did end up giving him a biscuit, which Mr Patel seemed to like but Harry couldn't enjoy as much.

The biggest reason was that it held ginger, which Harry had formed a rather blatant hostility against, and that the biscuit felt foreign on his tongue. Unnatural. Like the ginger didn't want to be baked with the sugar and refused to be sweetened, even with the cup of milk Professor Patel offered.

He didn't take a second helping until Snape arrived at quarter to five.

"I apologise to have imposed on you like this," Snape told Mr Patel (Professor Patel couldn't see him off, as the bell had rung while she was busy 'praying' in the parlour).

Mr Patel shook his head, "Not at all, Professor."

"Are you experiencing any pains?" Snape asked while Harry pulled on his shoes, almost slipping on the steps and feeling his cheeks heat up at the hold Snape got on him without even looking, cutting his fall.

"Yes. The medicine you gave me is finished, and I noticed Aisha's empty… uh, what was the name of the substance?"

"The balm?" Snape said without much drawling, clutching Harry's shoulder to prevent him abling away to catch a better look of kids playing at the end of the street short, "Has her skin shown some improvement, at least?"

Mr Patel gave a pathetic sort of shake of his head.

"Very well. I'll see what I can do," he nodded at Mr Patel, turning half-way around, "My regards to your sister," and without loosening his hold on Harry's arm, he marched down the street, feet clicking ominously on the cobblestone.

"Had an enjoyable time?" he asked Harry while walking down the steps, scattering the few people milling about the bottom, "I suppose your enjoyment makes no difference. They're the only ones I trust you with at the moment."

At his silence, Snape let go of his arm, "Anything I should know about, Harry?"

"We've taken the wrong turn," Harry replied, facing the left street they should have taken instead of the foreign right direction they were heading towards.

"We're making an improvised visit," he said, facing the street, which was comparably more crowded than the one they usually took, "Answer my question."

"Once we take the correct road home, sir, I will."

Harry collided with Snape's back. The people around them, who were more interested in making way for Snape rather than cross paths with him, turned their heads to look at the yelp of surprise from Harry. Harry rubbed his nose, looking up at a rigid Snape who still had his back to him.

"Do not, Mr Potter," Snape began, dangerously quiet and with a thick voice laced tight with rising frustration, "Ever call it that. Understood?"

Harry, who was not even looking at his face and had his ears full with the noise of the street and passing carts already took a step back, giving a shaky nod.

"Yes, sir."

Snape continued to walk without another word.

The rest of the walk was a mixture of silence and single word orders to stand close whenever Harry lingered far, which sometimes shifted into Snape taking a hold of his arm and dragging him forward by the shoulder.

Harry did his best to keep up, futile though it was. He had adopted a particular slide that made it harder for Harry to keep up, often taking twice as many steps to not linger behind.

The labyrinth of turns were little comfort. The buildings morphed gradually from the shops and ordinary houses to a much ignored part of town, one Harry didn't want to find himself alone in at night. He shuffled forward, peering at the run-down buildings from under his cap. Hands in pockets, he shuffled forward, turning his head away from the leering, rotting shapes.

He didn't see the pit. Harry's foot caught the pothole that split sharply from the road, his feet scuffing under him as his balance faltered. Flapping inelegantly, he regained balance right as Snape turned, throwing his arms behind him while arching his spine back, away from Snape's piercing eyes.

"I didn't fall," Harry defended himself, lifting his chin yet ignoring Snape's persistent gaze.

"How convincing," came the unconvinced reply with a roll of eyes.

Harry's reply came later, much later, when they made yet another unfamiliar turn onto an unfamiliar road. Snape doesn't notice, though. He doesn't have to. But as they walk into the street, the involuntary warmth of Snape's arm around his shoulders breathes life in Harry's chest. It was so unlike the evening cold seeping under his skin, inspiring a sense of freedom even beside the leering buildings caging them into the narrow alley.

And so very alive at the sight of a building across from them. .

"I don't believe you," Harry rasps in disbelief. He doesn't leave Snape's side, withholding the excitement that shows itself in dark cheeks and a cracking smile, "You found them."

Snape refuses to acknowledge it, and Harry doesn't want him to. They have no words to say to each other, but the letters arching over the iron gates speak enough, more than the newspapers ever can.

"I have one thing to say, however," Snape stops him beneath the rusty iron, "You may not speak to them directly."

"What?"

Snape turns his eyes to the wooden doors and Harry follows his gaze. Across the patches of dry grass, beyond cobblestones cracked by dry plants, a large window looms.

And behind it a group of children.

Snape takes him by the arm, stopping Harry's first step inside and cutting his smile short.

"Smallpox," Snape says, grim and defeated, "A child has acquired it. They're accepting no visitors."

"But my family-"

"I control no disease, Potter. Believe me."

Harry does believe him. But with his family waving behind the window, a smile on each of their faces, the only thing he wants to believe is what he can see. Defeated, he offers a nod to Snape, ducks under his arm as he pushes open the door and gains speed with every step he takes.

As he approaches, the vague silhouettes resolve into individual features. Upon his last step, his breath catches in his throat.

"David?"

The smiling boy was others were just as he remembered, soot free, identically clothed with bruises blossoming across their faces.

"How ya doing, Harry?"

"How am I doing? What happened to your face?" he asks, frowning at their averted gazes.

He couldn't get an answer. Marie suddenly jumped into view, throwing her hands up and screaming loud enough to make Snape wince in obvious agony.

"Harry! Harry you came back!"

He dropped his shoulders, tilting his head while a soft smile slipped to his lips, "Hello, Marie."

"Harry, I want to tell you something," she continued breathlessly, pressing both hands on the window, "Mama and Papa are coming back! I prayed, just like you said, and now mama and papa are coming back!"

Harry blinked, once, twice. He lifted his eyes from Marie to David, and David pressed his lips together, looking at the other boys who seemed equally lost.

"Marie," Joe said behind her, patting her awkwardly on the head, "Why don't you show Harry the toy your mama and papa bought you?"

Her face lit up brighter than Harry had ever seen. She ordered Harry to not move, pushing past the boys and running down the hall, her dress fluttering behind her.

Dress?

"Why is she…" Harry hissed, peering into the window, "Why is she dressed like that? And what does she mean by mama and papa?"

"That's, well, you see-" Joe tried to explain.

"I tried to tell her but-" David cut in, putting his hand over Joe's mouth only to recoil with a yelp when Joe bit down.

Rory pushed them aside, "Oh shut it. Tried to tell them, they say. I say-"

"You lo' should let me speak," Oliver pushed through, Mums behind him with his hands behind his back, "And don' le' Marie run off like tha' again. The other girls don' look at her nice."

"They're jealous," snapped Rory, cradling his hand, glaring at Joe, "They all are."

"So were ya, Rory. We all are. Don' look at me funny, Joe."

"Stop spitting nonsense then!"

David scoffed, leanin on the wall, "Yes, well-"

Snape cleared his throat. Immediately, each boy turned towards Snape. Harry, of course, didn't give any reaction. The rest, however, much to Harry's delight fell awfully quiet. And even Rory, who was still complaining about his hand, stashed it behind his back.

"Is your matron not joining us in the meeting?" Snape asked, moving to stand beside Harry. He wondered if it was intentional. To loom over the children as such, casting a shadow across their faces and terrifying them with ordinary questions asked in unordinary tones.

"She is kept very busy," Joe whispered, squaring his shoulders and looking elsewhere when Snape faced him, "Elizabeth still has the smallpox. A-and no doctor has come yet, so the matrons don't have time for us... unless sick."

"I see," Snape said,looking deep in thought. He took a deep breath, taking a step forward and turning on his heel to face Harry, "Unless you have infinite time, I urge you to be quick about the conversation."

Harry nodded, "What were you saying about Marie, Oliver?"

Among many things, Harry learned that Marie was being taken in by a family soon, and her soon to be father was to claim her in the following days. In the meantime, they had provided her with clothes and, as Marie showed Harry while jumping up and down, stuffed toys. Harry smiled at her while she could see, but the state of the boys didn't pass unnoticed. At the end, they sent Marie to her bed once more, telling her to rest for her new mama. Marie cried. Snape tried to urge her to bed when they failed to soothe her, and it only made her cry louder, screaming as she ran down the corridor. And Harry realised a few things.

They weren't happy. Not at all. They too smiled, when Marie talked to them, though behind them was the strain Harry knew only too well. Jealousy, anger. Harry, too, had often felt the same whenever he came upon a family during his cleaning days. The loneliness, the unfairness of it all. Watching someone own something you could only visit in your dreams. Harry was better now. He knew he was. He was thin, but they were hinner. He had clothes a few sizes too big yet clean. The rest had uneven patches sewn clumsily on their clothes already too small.

Harry hung his head, "They're hitting you here, aren't they?"

Rory scoffed, earning a glare from Oliver, at which he rolled his eyes.

"Ya aren't this daft, Harry," Oliver said, stepping closer and pressing a hand on the glass, "'Course they hit us-" his free hand swept down the side of his face, above a fresh bruise yellow around the edges, "Don' think there'd be any who didn't."

From the side of his vision, Snape clenched his hand. Harry hunched in on himself, taking a step forward, "Listen," he whispered sharply, drawing them closer with a beckoning of his hand. The group exchanged looks, but huddled their heads closer, bodies pressed together against the window. Harry peeked from above his shoulder, and whispered as loudly as he cold without being heard, "I have a plan."

"What plan?" David asked too loudy. That earned a slap on the back of the head from Mums, which all too quickly turned into a scuffle on their side.

Harry dropped his hands between his palms, groaning. A hand knocked on the door, pulling him back. Oliver smiled, strained and weary - unforced yet pulled over dry, neglected skin. Harry pressed his own hand over the window, the disease be damned, and smiled, his eyes closing.

"I'll look after them, Harry."

Harry chuckled. Forced, dry, "You can't shoulder everything."

"I know."

"I have a plan, Oliver. To help us all," Harry whispered, opening his eyes. His other fist was clenched now fueled by whatever emotion was stirring in his chest, and raised his chin, "I will earn money, and I will get us out of here, into that warm house we dreamed of."

When it was Oliver's time to chuckle, it slipped past his lips like water through a parted gate. Smooth, welcoming. A clean laugh that Harry wouldn't doubt as anything but real.

"I trust you, Harry," Oliver said, joining their hands behind the pane.

And those words stayed with him long after they left Greenpath Orphanage. The clock pointed past eight, the sky a blossom of dark colours racing past the horizon. At the table, the two ate in silence under the company of the lantern. The orange flames flickered weakly, casting long shadows on the wood. Dropping his spoon in his empty bowl, Harry stood up, sinking deeper into the darkness of the room.

"May I be excused, sir?"

"Leave your plate on the counter and wait for me on the sofa," replied Snape, face brimming with darkness, despite a number of lamps placed throughout the room. Harry nodded, steering around the table. Placing the plate on the counter, he poured himself a cup of water from the pitcher and drank it down in one gulp. The cup left beside the plate, Harry passed by Snape and sat himself down on the sofa.

It took an infuriating amount of time for Snape to join him in the parlor, unbuttoning his sleeves. The light caught his body with every step, glowing faintly over his dark clothes. And when he sat, Harry thought he caught a glimpse of something dark and large on his arm. Snape pulled his sleeve sharply down, and Harry pretended not to see anything by focusing on the mantelpiece.

He narrowed his eyes.

"The picture is gone."

Snape stilled, "What picture?"

Harry lifted a hand, pointing at the spot above the mantelpiece where the photo used to be, "The picture of the young woman, under a tree. It's gone. Did you remove it?"

Snape let the void of silence do the speaking, the clock chiming in and the late night wind rattling the window. Harry dared not speak. The sky was a messy splash of white dots, as always, too far for Harry to see clearly. He still watched them, though. The blinking lights so far in the distance. And yet, others could see them. Wish upon them. As foolish as the thought was, perhaps Marie's prayer was accepted because she could see them, if she prayed to them at all.

Harry turned to Snape. Snape was watching him back, just as careful, face half-concealed in the shadows.

"Do you pray, sir?"

An unanswered moment. Then, a sharp intake of breath, "What brick has your head collided with for you to ask such a thing?"

Harry twiled his fingers together, "Marie and I… we spoke, the morning I first came into your shop. Or before coming here. She wanted her mother and father to come back -they're not- well, they died, I think and-"

"I must have missed the point you're trying to make between the unnecessary amount of sentences you've managed to string together," Snape snapped, "Do draw your conclusion."

Harry tapped his fingers unevenly on the sofa, muscles taut, "We both agreed to pray for a family, that morning. For a warm house and warm food and good clothes. She's getting a family now," Harry hung his head, the words hanging his shoulders, "A father, a mother. I think I did it wrong. I prayed, too, just before I fell. But maybe I haven't prayed to the right… thing?"

"Thing?"

"Well, the Patels prayed today, too. Doing some odd actions, such as bending down, though Mr Patel sat on the ground… What? Oh, fine, my conclusion is that they prayed 'salah' to God, called Allah. I know some families-" he squeezed his arm, running a nail down the exposed skin, feeling something vaguely familiar to what he experienced that afternoon, "Attend church… But I prayed to… nothing. Is that why my prayer didn't come true?"

Snape's response was a sigh, his face lost in the shadows, his cheekbones occasionally visible from swelling candle flames. All quite, lost. Eyes lost in the window, the orange flickering in his black eyes.

"Sir?"

"I do not pray, Potter. I do not indulge in such… unpleasantries."

"Unpleasantries?"

"Each to their own, Mr Potter. I do not pray. I do not degrade you or Professor Patel's methods openly. There is little for me to contribute to your views on the matter."

Harry shrugged, "If Marie prayed to the stars, I think mine didn't come true because I can't see them."

"What?"

Harry pushed himself back on the couch.. Snape was close, leaning closer, the lines crossing his face that made him look older than he really was bright in the light. Harry swallowed, clutching the fabric of the sofa, knuckles burinıing.

"I-I won't pray to the stars next time, sir?"

Snape groaned, his scowl cutting sharply into his features, "I was playing at humour, when I said you must have hit your head. I very strongly doubt it is a joke anymore. Do you believe that is the part of the sentence I am critiquing?"

Harry did. He didn't admit it, though. Curling into himself, Harry looked down at his toes, "No, sir."

"Am I correct to assume you cannot see, Mr Potter?"

"Only far distances, sir."

"And how long have you been like this, Mr Potter?"

Harry dug his fingers into his arm, "As long as I could remember sir."

"And you have kept this from me why?"

Sighing, Harry lifted his head, facing Snape who was now standing very close, a hand on the back of the sofa, "It hasn't mattered before, it doesn't matter now."

"It matters to me. What happens in your life concerns me."

Harry snorted, "No it bloody well doesn't," he whispered into his arm, turning away from Snape again. That would have been the end of that conversation. Snape would be angry, send Harry to his room and they would fall into their previous routines, as though the incident hadn't taken place. This time, though, Snape didn't shout. Harry preferred for him to shout, to throw a tantrum and leave him alone.

The dangerous curl of his low voice, strong with a spitting warmth of irritation was much, much scarier.

"Excuse me?"

"I don't matter. Not to you. Not to anyone. The only part of me you're concerned with is the Boy-Who-Lived, not anything else," Harry still challenged, his hands squeezed into fists, heart hammering, mind blaring because this was a terribly foolish mistake.

But it was a mistake Harry was willing to make.

"And you think that is below me?

"I think it's below anyone to think my only worth comes from a title I was giving for something I haven't done!" the words escaped, and he didn't try to stop them as they frothed from inside and spat like wild poison, "I think it's below you to keep me here while acting like a sodding bomb!"

Snape sprang to his feet, jabbing a finger into Harry's chest, "Watch your mouth with me, Potter."

"And you don't even tell me!" Harry shouted through his dry mouth, hands slipping into his hair and pulling them by the roots, "You don't tell me what sets you off, and expect me to keep away."

"I expect you to be an obedient stu-" Snape stopped himself, his long fingers curling into a fist, "I expect you to be respectful."

Harry laughed, dropping his hands, "You want to control me. That's what you want."

Snape took a shaky breath, speaking through gritted teeth, "I am very close to doing something you and I will regret, Potter."

"You are like the atoms you told me about. Like that large ele-something table, except you don't know where to belong and no one knows either. You can't decide on how to treat me."

"Perhaps it's because you don't know how to act," Snape spat through his teeth, uncurling his finger and waving it in front of Harry's face.

"Well, it didn't have to be that, did it?" Harry answered, jaw clenched and body shaking uncontrollably, "No one needed to know! You could have gone around, spent your years in peace without me. Dumble-lore didn't need to know! Patel didn't need to know and-"

Harry slammed a hand over his mouth, much too late.

Snape's hand immediately dropped, his brows lifting. They were down again in only a second, his body bending over Harry, trapping him in the corner of the couch.

"For your own well being," Snape hissed, the light from behind Harry only darkening his face with menacing shadows, "tell me you haven't told Professor Patel who you are."

At his silence, Snape's hand slammed down on the armrest, "Answer me!"

At the loud noise, Harry flinched, nails digging into his skin and heart caught in a deathly squeeze. Trembling, Harry shook his head, trying to hide his head in his arms, "I-I'm very sorry, I-"

That must have been the fire that set off the bomb. Harry felt a thorned grip around his arm, nails digging into his skin. He shouted, at the sudden pain, but Snape's hold stood tight, unwavering. And as far as Harry's pleas went, they didn't stop Snape from lifting him up.

Pulled from the sofa, Snape dragged Harry across the room, not even flinching when Harry's fingers dug into his hand.

Eyes already burning, surroundings turning fuzzy, Harry felt the world slipping past his fingers, the hold he had on himself breaking as he was flung into his room.

And with a final look at Harry, Snape slammed the door closed, the lock clicking.

Leaving Harry alone in the dark.