It took Harry only one week to learn the alphabet. Snape complained that it would have taken him much less time had he not procrastinated and given it his ‘full attention, pathetic though it may be’. Between sweeping the shop and tending the counter, Harry wasn’t sure how he was delaying the task. The alphabet proved to be much easier than the currency he had to learn. Adding and subtracting numbers, all while Snape stalked behind him - a hand pushing him to the side when both the customer and Snape grew impatient - was difficult.  

Snape was trying to teach him to learn on the spot. Harry called him a git for it.

Not outloud. 

Harry didn’t ask for things he wouldn’t get, but neither would he refuse what was offered. Or dismiss the efforts made by others purely for his sake. So during his stay, when Snape took him out and bought him clothes from a second-hand store, Harry decided to keep his mouth shut for at least a week, ignoring every biased criticism. 

Ignoring was doing too much courtesy.

 Harry didn’t ignore them. He suppressed them long enough by scratching his arms, pinching his skin, and clenching his jaw under his cap before Snape would walk away, leaving him to stew in the anger until Harry vented it by screaming into the pillow in his room. 

The room was a different matter. Decorated in dull colors, some days Harry felt the room gradually shrink. Small, dusty. Just like the cupboard. The last swirls of light shyly recoiling away. It made Harry choke, woke him up from the occasional bad dream, and left him exhausted to the bone for Snape to poke fun at. 

Then the cycle would continue. 

Not today.

Harry stared at Snape, then looked down at his hand. He weighed the money pouch stuffed with coins and a folded piece of paper, squeezing the fabric. The edges of the coins dug into his skin. A reminder, rooting him down.

“I don’t understand.”

“Frankly, I am not surprised.”

Harry told himself to bite it back. Lifting his head, he held the paper above his head for Snape to see, “I can’t read this.”

“Surely you’ve learnt every letter in the alphabet?” Snape asked, lifting a brow. His lips curling into a grin, the first one Harry had seen that week.

“Yes, but-”

“And you can recognize them in different textures?”

“Yes, but-

“And are you well-versed in basic money handling?”

“I am, but-”

Snape held a hand to silence him, standing up from his chair and assisting a customer, one Augusta Longbottom, who was old and just as tall, thin and bony. She carried with her a bright red handbag and an atrocious hat that held a stuffed vulture-  with some medicine for her grandson. Harry waited by the chimney for fifteen minutes, trying to decipher the list before Snape returned. His mind was puzzled by the letter. The accumulated knowledge escaped him.

“I can’t read this, Professor,” he said, shaking the list in the air, “You know I can’t.” 

Snape wiped his hands on his apron, marching around him to the shelf directly above the chimney, tapping a jar, “What does it say here Potter?”

Harry squinted. He stood up, walking to Snape’s side to read the label, “G-ginger, right?”

“Correct. Tell me, what is the last item on the list?”

Harry smoothed out the paper. He slid a finger down the crumpled page and replied, bitterly, “Ginger.”

Snape smirked. Gripping the jar, he lifted the lid. Holding it down, he waved it under Harry’s nose. The smell invaded him. It bit, hard, gnawing and not letting go - inducing a cough long after Snape placed the jar back.

“And that,” he said, crossing his arms, “Is how it smells.”

Harry wrinkled his nose, suddenly glad that Aunt Petunia didn’t store it in her kitchen because it was atrocious, “I don’t like it.”

“You’ll love it no more when you have to fill the jar after you come back,” he squinted his eyes when Harry gagged, “Just ask the man down two streets  for the amount specified, and no one else. You’ll need to make more than one trip, undoubtedly, with those pitiful arms of yours. I’m not mending any broken bones, not after you’ve finally healed,” he stilled, “Well, most of you, in any case.” 

Harry’s bones were another recurring argument in the household, this time linked to Harry’s eating habits. Or rather, the lack thereof. Snape seemed to find Harry’s forgetfulness when it came to meals or not finishing even half of his plate as a problem. Even more so the way Harry stared at his food, as if it was going to be snatched away any second. Harry didn’t understand what the problem was. His stomach filled before the food was finished, and it meant he could have some later, when Severus wasn’t looking. 

Harry nodded, pocketing the paper and sack in his new, brown pants. Walking to the coat rack, Harry reached for his cap on his tiptoes. The coat rack gave a rattle once the cap was pulled down from the wood and over Harry’s mop of dark hair. 

“I’ll be leaving, then.”

A customer walked in right as Harry walked out, and Snape gave him a stiff nod, turning to tend to an old man with a cane. 

*

“What do you mean you’re closing?”

The man shook his head, rubbing his neck with one hand, “My daughter’s given birth, kid. Nothing I can do. Tell the Professor to send you back tomorrow,” the man said, turning his back and locking the door. He pulled on his jacket, buttoning it over his wide stomach with some difficulty. He put on a tattered hat over his balding head before reaching for his pocket. He pulled out Harry’s list, handing it back to him and rubbed the edge of his moustache between two fingers, “Give my regards to the Professor,” he tipped his hat, looking both ways before crossing the street to join his wife.

Harry stood very still, looking after the man as he helped his wife onto a work wagon before hopping on himself. They smiled as the horse started to trot up the street, mixing with the street traffic.

The voices meddled with Harry's thoughts and met with the image of Snape accosting him for returning empty-handed. Harry feared he would send him after the man to retrieve his precious ginger, ordering him not to return until he had come back with one whole bag and nothing less. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, slouching. Snape wouldn't kill him for something out of his control, would he? He didn't kill him after Harry's outburst last week, though he made his displeasure known in many different ways. Harry shook his head, breath wavering. The sound of his footsteps fading in the background.

Don't slow down. Don't stop. Don't breathe.

Harry didn't realize someone was calling his name until a hand landed on his shoulder, jolting the world to a stop. The mist didn't leave at once, but the world regained its colour when Oliver spoke. 

When Oliver spoke?

"What are ya doing, Harry?" Oliver asked with a frown, "And where were ya! We thought ya had gone off! Marie-Lue was barking mad, I'm telling ya. Crying every night!"

Harry stared, touching his mouth. He parted his lips when Oliver snapped his fingers to draw his attention, "Ya alright, Harry?" 

"I-I'm... I'm alright, Oliver. I'm so sorry. But not dead, as you can tell."

"Yeah, but were ya? Master Edwin didn't say nuffink, but ‘e was acting quite off. Like ‘e had lost a bet."

Not so far off. Harry scratched his hair under the cap, giving a nervous smile to the people who were now walking around them, scoffing at the way the two blocked the road. 

Oliver noticed as well. He took Harry by the arm, pulling him to an alley near a bookstore. Harry almost snatched his hand away once Oliver's hand touched his. It was rough and scratched with the soot Harry had not missed climbing up into.

"Ya clothes a different too. And ya skin," Oliver said, dropping his brush and bag of soot. He took out his cap, dusting the black heaps from his light brown hair, and smearing his skin with the back of his hand, "What happened?"

Harry bit his lip, shifting his weight from one foot to the next, "Sorry... but it's a long story."

"Tell me anyway."

"You're not going to like it, Oliver."

"Let me hear it, either way."

Harry scratched his face. His mouth had gone dry. Looking at Oliver now, Harry didn't know how he could tell Oliver about Snape while his friend still worked under Edwin, cleaning chimneys for a living, risking his life at every climb while Harry only risked an argument with Snape, which was beginning to resemble less of a threat by the minute.

"Harry, I'm ya friend. Tell me wha’ ya have been doing."

Harry took in a breath, quick and short. He glanced both ways to see if anyone was listening and leaned forward, pulling Oliver down by the  shirt, "Remember the shop Master Edwin dragged me to last week?" 

Oliver nodded.

"The man working there -Severus Snape- I was sweeping his chimney. I reached the top and when sliding down, uh-" Harry darted his eyes, lowering his chin when he felt his ears heat up, "Fell down-"

"Fell down?"

Harry's cheeks heated as well, and he gave a weak nod.

"Must have been a bad one, if ya fell. Bad bricks?"

Harry paused, staring at a passing man’s ruffled hair and dirty moustache, "Yeah, bad bricks."

"At least ya haven't gone off, mate. But I why haven't ya come back?"

Harry saw no point in hiding it from Oliver any longer, hurt him though it may. So he began. He told him about how after he fell, Snape helped heal him. How he told Edwin off. How he bought him the clothes Harry was wearing, while Oliver kept silent and Harry kept folding and unfolding his arms in a constant loop, searching for a sign of discomfort on Oliver's face. He didn't find any, which only led to more nerves, more jittery movement.

Snape caring, Snape not caring. In this situation, Harry didn't know whether to hate the man or respect him, or look for something more. He still couldn't forgive what had happened in the shop just before Snape started to teach him the alphabet, when he shouted at him to not ask questions about his past. Nor the week that followed with insults and undeserved scoldings.

By the time Harry stopped talking, dislike and respect walked hand-in-hand.

"Ya seem to be doing well for ya self, Harry," said Oliver rather quietly, rubbing his arm. The whole street lost its sound but still whirled in the background feverishly. The soot’s odor grew to a nauseating level, to the point that it hurt to breathe

"Uh, yeah. I'm glad Snape is willing to be... generous, despite it all."

Oliver chuckled meekly. Harry's guilt grew to an ugly height once he saw his friend’s bloodshot eyes underscored by angry bags. The blue Harry once knew was lost behind an emotion Harry couldn't understand.

Liar. 

Harry understood well enough. 

He just didn't want to acknowledge it.

Harry cleared his throat, "Sorry, uh...How are the others?" he asked because there wasn't anything else to say.

"Marie-Lue cried her eyes out. Might have filled the Thames, with that amount of tears. Mums almost broke his leg, but Davi shared some sweets he nicked from a house yesterday."

"Everything's fine?"

"Everything's fine, Harry. Ya just..." Oliver bit his lip, then offered a smile, brows knit tight, "Don't work too hard to repay the debt, yeah? Marie-Lue will be okay with us."

"Oliver-"

"Harry, stop. You're in a better place. A much better place than us, at least," Oliver said, then leaned against the wall behind him, a shadow cast across his features, "Keep it. A chimney lining isn't anything cheap. Work well, prove ya self useful. The Professor is sure ta keep ya if he learns that you’re a good worker."

Harry's shoulders fell and he looked at Oliver as if he'd grown another head, "You don't... you don't think I'm doing this to get away from Edwin, do you?"

"Ya not?"

"No!" Harry said. He took a step back, then clutched his friend by the shoulders,  "Oliver, you're my family! I can't just live my life pretending you don't exist!" 

"I'm not saying ya should-"

"We're going to grow up together. In a house, in town. With good food, warm beds and-"

Oliver grabbed Harry's wrist, pulling them away from his shoulders, "Ya want the best for ya family?"

Harry nodded, feeling a little uncomfortable with Oliver's grip.

"Ya family wants the best for ya, Harry."

The words, lined in perfect order, went through one ear. It didn't go out the other. Instead, it spiralled into an echo, lighting up warmly in his mind. Pinned to the back of his head where Harry accepted it willingly, wanting to grow it for comfort during those long, hurtful nights. 

Harry wiped his eyes to get rid of the urge to cry. He accepted the hug, wrapping his arms around Oliver. It was shorter than he would have wanted, but when they parted, leaving the alley, the week of insults didn't hurt as much as before.

"Ya look after ya self, Harry. I heard there's a fugitive walking around, these days. A murderer."

"Don't think he'll come after me, Oliver," Harry said, chuckling and wiping his reddened nose. Noticing the look Oliver gave him, Harry ducked his head, murmuring a quick apology.

Oliver shook his head, then patted him on the shoulder, "Visit us one day, will ya? And let the Professor know you’ve been gettin’ pains, even though you healed. Promise?"

Harry felt the need to apologise for that, too. For complaining about the pain in his body and the headaches while Snape worked hard to heal him. So he apologised to Oliver, and apologised again once Oliver told him not to apologise before promising to let Snape know once he got home.

 “I will. Tell the other's I said hello, and that I miss them. Maybe hug Marie-Lue, will ya?"

Oliver nodded and was the first to turn around. Harry did the same, ready to walk back, hands in his pockets when Oliver called his name once more.

"And Harry?"

Harry turned, tilting his head.

"Happy early birthday."

*

The customer smiled as Harry handed her the Honeysuckle tea in a brown paper bag, handing him the coins before walking out, the bell not ringing behind her. Harry couldn’t remember where Snape had gotten the tea from, or even if he sold any tea, but the customer was already gone, so he didn’t bother calling after them.

Harry sorted through Snape’s drawer, storing the coins in all the wrong places. The bell chimed, and Harry lifted his head to see Professor Patel walking through the doors, smile on her face.

“Professor Patel!” Harry shouted, the coins flying out of his hand as he jumped over the counter, taking her by the hand before wrapping his arms around her waist, his hands lost in the black fabric, “Did you come for the tea?”

“Of course I did, Harry,” Professor Patel said, running a gloved hand through his hair, lifting his hair to reveal his scar, “Oh dear, that's a nasty little thing, isn’t it?”

Harry blushed, straightening his pitch black hair over the scar that turned and twisted on his skin. Sharp lines spiraling on his forward and down his forehead, “I got it the day you left me, Aunt Petunia said. After an incident. She didn’t tell me what it was.”

“It was a fire.”

Harry nodded, leaning his head on her chest, then turning it to the side to breathe, “A wild fire.”

“Oh dear. Harry-” his mom pushed him away, walking to the counter. Her black dress swirling into a blue gown, the black color leaking like smoke from her dress and messing the floor, “You’ve sorted the coins all wrong!”

“What?”

When his mom turned her head, the black veil around her face dissolved into sleek, black hair. It slid down her back, flowing like a dark waterfall, and floated behind her as she walked towards him. 

Harry took a step back, because with every step his mom took forward, the world warped itself black, surrounding the shop in  shadow until Harry was left alone. 

That’s when the sounds began. Crashing plates. Angry screams. All exploding in his ears at the same time while the walls around the shop started to close in.

Harry couldn’t breath. He screamed among the voices, pounding against the walls, “No! Get me out! I want to breathe! I can’t- I can’t-!”

His body jolted in wild tremors, shaking with terror. Harry couldn’t run. He pounded, and pounded, hands not hurting because now, Aunt Petunia’s perfume slid down his throat, choking him. Harry collapsed to the ground, holding his throat. Tears slid down his face while his chest tightened in tremendous pain. Squeezing. Squeezing. A thousand needles and burning sand pricking and puncturing his throat, charring his skin. And Harry was still afraid. Of not being able to breathe again, of hurting. And Harry was angry, because it was unfair. So, so unfair while he suffered, no one else did and now, while he lived better than the others, his family lived no different.

And Harry knew he was drowning. 

His  hand loosened just as the floor gave away, dropping him down a long way. Falling, falling, falling. Patches of white light speckled his vision before they rippled into the  coherent scenery of Snape’s shop.

Snape was there, back turned to Harry, looking over at the mess Professor Patel had left behind her.

Harry coughed into his hand, rolling to his back on the ground. The wood cut into his skin, digging deep until Harry screamed, and screamed and-

Snape turned, livid and easily the scariest thing Harry had seen  in his life. 

He stalked towards him, but Harry couldn’t scoot back, as if he was fastened to the wood. 

Dread filled him, a bubbling clump before it gushed out with an agonizing explosion. 

“I’m sorry! Professor Snape, I didn’t do it! Please, believe me, I-”

“Potter!”

“I’m sorry! Professor Snape, I’m so sorry!”

Snape took him by the shoulder, giving him a sharp tug forward, “Potter!”

“I’m sorry!”

The light of the apothecary dissolved into black. It left Harry among tangled sheets, his skin wet with sweat and heart pounding at a distressing speed.

Someone was holding him by the shoulders. Not shaking him, but nudging him rather gently, another hand untangling the sheets wrapped around his arms and legs. 

“P-professor?”

“You were having a nightmare,” spoke his voice in the dark, matter of factly. The sheets successfully peeled from his body and dropped in a heap on the floor, “I found you whimpering and shaking your head.”

Harry sat up. Professor Snape’s hand didn’t let go until Harry steadied his back against the headboard, leaning back on the hard wood. 

“Stay here,” Snape said, and Harry opened one eye, the bed lifting at the loss of weight. He almost reached a hand, almost asked for him to stay. 

He didn’t, of course. Professor Snape’s footsteps disappeared out of the room, accompanied by a splash of water a few moments later before returning. The door creaked as Professor Snape nudged it open, then again when he closed it. No moon tonight. No moon to shine light on Professor Snape while he pushed a glass of water into Harry’s hands, urging for him to drink.

He waited patiently, no doubt having questions, and Harry took as long as he could with that glass of water.

“I’m sorry about the ginger, Professor,” Harry said to avoid any questions, “I tried to explain to the vendor.”

“We’ve discussed it already, upon your return. In fact, I don’t remember blaming you for it."

Harry took another sip, “I know. But I never apologised, did I?”

Snape sighed, “I’ll send you to buy some tomorrow morning, if that makes you feel better. With the money you didn't return, mind you."

It did, but Harry still let the conversation drop after that.

“Do you have nightmares frequently?” Professor Snape asked, plucking the finished glass and setting it on the bedside table, “Or is this a rare occurrence?”

His silence stretched far too long, and so he wasn’t surprised Professor Snape snorted once Harry said, “No.”

“What did you dream about?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, sir.”

“Hmm.”

The silence stretched again. This time, Professor Snape didn’t ask him to speak, but at the end of it, he nudged him by the shoulder as he stood up, “Come, Potter. Some fresh air before you sleep.”

Harry groaned, wanting nothing more than to put his head on the pillow and sleep until the exhaustion in his bones lifted. Professor Snape pulled him by the arm, far gentler than Harry expected, and led him to the window. 

He let go of Harry to lift the window. Parting the curtains apart first, he dug his fingers under the wood and shoved it open with some brutal force. 

The wind lifted some of Harry’s hair, a cool chill on his skin. Harry didn’t mind. He closed his eyes, swaying with the wind, head leaning against the wall while the night air filled his lungs, scattering some of the effects of the nightmare.

“You have them often,” said Professor Snape 

Harry opened one eye, turning his face to the Professor. No moonlight tonight. Harry could still make out his lean form. Almost too thin, even in the light, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m not asking you to share it.”

“But you want me to.”

“Yes,” Professor Snape said, turning his head from the window to face him, “I do.”

Harry bit his tongue looking out into the city. No light, no moon. Only black, soulless masses.

“Why?”

“Because I only noticed now. And only because I woke up to get a glass of water myself, and as luck would have it, decided to check up on you.”

“I don’t believe in luck.”

“Neither do I,” Professor Snape said with a dry chuckle, closing the window and leading him to bed, “Neither do I.”

The bed felt warmer, almost more comfortable as Harry lay on it. Somehow welcoming. Professor Snape didn’t help him with the sheet, but waited until Harry was under them, head on his pillow and eyes closed.

“Sleep, Potter,” he said, right before walking to the door and closing it behind him.

Somehow, Harry did.

*

The next evening, the door opening interrupted Harry’s sweeping session. Harry lifted his head to greet the customer because Snape was in his laboratory, doing what he always did, cooped up in the room. Harry had a growing suspicion that it wasn’t as enjoyable as Snape made it out to be, since he couldn’t imagine the room getting any sunlight. Nonetheless, he wasn’t here now, and Harry was stationed in his absence to tend to any customers. 

But this wasn’t a customer. 

Harry paused mid-sweep to find a boy -his age or older- with tattered clothes waiting by the door, a patched cap hiding his very short hair. The boy walked up to him, hands in his pockets, standing at least a head over Harry as he stopped.

“Good morning,” said Harry, because it was polite as well as a habit Snape had carved into him, “Can I help you?”

“Is there a bloke called, uh, Professor Snape ‘ere?” the boy asked uncertainly, gesturing at the shop.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Where is ‘ee?”

Harry pointed at the door that led down to the laboratory, “Down there.”

“Fetch ‘em for me.”

“What?”

“Look, I ‘ave a message to deliver, alright?” the boy asked with mild annoyance, taking out an envelope from his jacket pocket and extending it for Harry to see, “‘Ere. Now fetch ‘em for me. The man who gave it to me told me to ‘urry up.”

Harry, delighted to be able to recognise Snape’s name nodded. Leaning the broom against the chimney, Harry walked around the counter to the door, a little nervous to interrupt the man, as always. He’d done this before. Done it more time than necessary to worry about Snape’s reaction. 

Harry pushed the door open, which led to a small landing that transitioned into a staircase that spiraled down. 

Making an effort not to look inside, Harry shouted for Snape.

“Excuse me, Professor Snape!” he called out, just like he was taught, “Someone sent you a message.”

A short while later, Professor Snape called back in a less than delighted voice, “Who?

“I don’t know, sir. It came in an envelope.”

Harry could hear the displeasure in Snape’s footsteps. They grew louder until Snape stepped out, a little hunched with prominent bags under his eyes. He looked awful, worse than the past few days when he had started to grow rather… miserable. 

His hair was greasier than usual. The clothes he wore had started to smell too, but the usually very tidy Professor Snape seemed to have no intention of future personal grooming. Or any grooming, really. Harry was the only one that tended to the shop, doing any additional work while the Professor locked himself in his dungeon, leaving Harry sweeping, mopping, and dusting the shop and house. The cooking was no different. The meals had diminished to a notable quality. Harry didn’t mind, of course. But during the almost ten days here, it was uncharacteristic to see Snape in such a… depressed mood. 

“Who sent you?” Snape hissed at the boy, grabbing the letter and not bothering with a letter opener, ripping the envelope and starting to read.

“I don’t know, sir. Just gave me this envelope and told me to-”

“Right,” Snape said, crunching the envelope in one hand, looking both pleased and angry, “On your way, now, if you’ve been paid your price.

The boy nodded. Touching the tip of his cap, he turned on his heel and trotted out the door, disappearing down the street.

With a sudden turn, Snape was moving again. Crossing the distance between the laboratory door with wide steps, he slipped down to the cellar. He came back a short while later dressed in a long, black coat, and carrying a leather doctor’s bag with him. He also wore a hat, in favor of his hair, one would guess. He spared no time in rummaging through the shelves, throwing in some jar or the other.

“Potter,” Snape turned to Harry, marching towards him.

“S-sir?” 

“Unlock the safe-box,” he said while passing him, forcing the key to his hand, “And hurry, I don’t have all day.”

Harry's hands flailed for the key, almost dropping it. With a crude nod, Harry moved to the drawer, unlocking it, an eye on Snape who was kneeling beside the drawers and shelves under the counter. Standing up from the floor, he straightened up, burshing his dusty knees. Moving beside, Harry, he counted some money in his hands, then locked the safe-box again. Then, Snape left. Harry followed after him, cursing himself for forgetting to put the money from today's errands back while the safe-box was unlocked. Already by the door by the time Harry reached him, Snape counted the money again, frowned, and handed Harry some back.

“I’m expected on a house visit, Potter and need you to finish some tasks for me. Are you listening?”

Harry nodded, looking up through his hair.

“Go down to my laboratory. There, on the longest table, you will find a brown bag labeled ginger, the one you bought this morning. Though it’s small, I’m confident even you can’t miss it. Fill the jar up here with the ginger in the bag. Then, drop the box key inside the vase of dry flowers on the same table. And finally,” he pulled a key from inside his jacket, dangling it by a small, rusted chain in front of his face, “Lock up after me. Do not open for anyone, especially if-” he closed his mouth and eyes as if in pain, “Regardless of what anyone says, no one is to enter the shop. Understood?”

Another nod. Harry made a grab for the key, but Snape snatched it away just as his fingers brushed it, “A verbal answer, Mr Potter.”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape raised a brow. Harry sighed, folding his arms over his chest, “Sorry, I… Yes. I understand, Professor. I will not open the door. What now ? Oh, fine. I won’t answer the bloody door, regardless of what anyone says.”

“You are not prone to keeping promises, Mr Potter,” Snape said, dropping the key to his hands, “I am taking precautions.”

“Oliver thinks the same,” replied Harry, pocketing the money and box key, “You two would get along fine, I think.”

“Oliver?”

“He’s a friend. From Mr Edwin. He’s the one I bumped into yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

Harry’s throat went dry and he almost slapped himself in the forehead. Of course. He had purposely not told Snape about him when he hadn’t questioned his tardiness, as to not pester him with the pain in his body, which had grown from a dull thud to an uncomfortable throb this morning. 

“Yes,” Harry replied, rubbing the back of his head, “He was the reason I was late.”

“You didn’t tell me about this.”

“Sorry sir,” Harry bit back, deciding to be bold, “But you haven’t asked .”

Snape looked like he was going to snap back something equally rude or something worse. But he sighed instead, pinching the bridge of his nose instead, “I haven’t got the time nor energy to deal with this, Potter. We will discuss it at a more appropriate time, do not doubt that,” Snape said, opening the door and stepping out, “Lock the door. I’ll be back before later.”

Then he was gone, a lonely walker on the sidewalk, a stranger among many more strangers.

Harry, of course, did lock the door.

He then walked to the shelf, where the jar stood, and pulled it down from above the chimney, forcing the lid open and wrinkling his nose at the smell. Turning around to head to the cellar with some curiosity, he stopped when movement in the window caught his eye.

The jar almost dropped from his hands when he saw who it was.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Marge, fuming behind the window and pounding at the door.

And they weren’t pleased to see him.