A considerably short walk paved the road back to the familiar street of the apothecary.

This time, on his fourth visit to the brick street, Harry spared little attention to his surroundings and all attention to the sign that was balanced above the door of the approaching apothecary. Patel Apothecary.

He regarded it with an audible gulp and accumulating dread.

The turn of the key in the lock didn’t help.

Nor did the barren sight of the apothecary.

The wallpaper was exactly as Professor Patel had said, hanging by the walls pathetically like sagging fabric. On one particular wall, a shelf, of conspicuously Dursley height, was empty. Not a single jar, glass, or phial lined the barren wood.

The door closed behind him with a sharp thud and he couldn’t find it in himself to be uncomfortable with the familiar smell of the apothecary when the sound rattled both the window and Harry. The door clicked once more, ominously and almost silently. Wind swiped Harry’s side when Snape walked past him with a billow of his coat. The coat was off and hanging from the hanger with one sleek move and then Harry found himself in front of a glaring Snape. His arms were crossed. His lips thin lines beneath his scowl. That is how Harry found himself wishing for his bed in Diagon Alley after all.

“So,” Snape began, sounding more and more like Uncle Vernon, “Have you cooled your temper to a manageable level?”

Harry toed the floor and allowed himself a nod.

Snape gave a long, exhausted sigh. His shoulders sagged with the motion, and Snape looked suddenly too old. The lines on his forehead and under his eyes eased to small creases. He appeared gaunt, miserable - a walking set of emotions in dire need of rest.

“At the moment, Potter, I have no endurance to spare for our... inevitable talk. Head to your room and sleep. You’ll be rising with me tomorrow. And believe me, Potter-” a clawed hand landed on Harry’s shoulder, stopping him from reaching the door that opened to the staircase, “You’ll be needing every minute of it.”

There was no Snape to calm him from a nightmare, that night. And he only barely managed to stop himself from letting his other arm bleed.

*

True to his word, Snape did wake him up early, during the murky, grey hours of the morning. Those too early as to be morning, too draining as to be any good.

He pulled on his socks and then his boots with unwilling hands. Clumsy fingers prying the fabric under his pants and stuffing the shirt borrowed from Snape inside his trousers. But then, he paused. The morning ticked away around him and Harry didn’t stop it. He dismissed it and instead stared at bandages wrapped under the shirt with rolled sleeves.

The morning ticked into colour. Harry opened the door, the bed and his attire equally tended to. The chair he pulled out screeched on the floor and yet Snape, who was working on the counter, didn’t so much as flinch. Ah. Silence, then. Snape had chosen silence. Cruel silence of unspoken rules and boundaries. Invisible borders scattered with trial and error.

Harry hated silence.

The morning blossomed into yellow and orange when Snape brought two plates of steaming eggs, bread, and potatoes to the table. They thudded onto the table, a pair of forks clattering beside them just as Snape collapsed on the opposite seat.

“Eat,” came the simple order.

Harry waited until Snape took the first bite, loosening his hold on the sides of the chair. For a few more seconds, he watched Snape take a couple of bites from his plate, twirling the fork in his hands while he read an older copy of the Daily Prophet, chewing very, very slowly.

Harry lifted his own hand. His fingers, shaking and weak compared to Snape’s, inched closer to the utensil and twirled the tips through the food.

“Food won’t always be at your disposal, Mr Potter,” Snape said, lifting his eyes high enough to stare at him behind his curtain of hair, “Eat. You’re among the last of those I need remind of what it means to lack food.”

Harry flushed. Stabbing his fork down rather viciously on the potato, he swallowed his share of the meal with a few mouthfuls, forcing Snape to remind him to slow down before he caused him unwanted paperwork. Once his misdirected anger was through, however, Harry was left alone and bored under the smug grin of Snape as he savaged his food with cruel pleasure.

At last, Snape too pushed away his own plate. The newspaper, folded carelessly into a crinkled heap, was dropped on the edge of the table, as he collected his and Harry’s dishes in a stacked pile and leaned back on his chair.

Another sigh. Another reminder for Harry of what was coming.

“Now, start from the beginning. The very beginning. Honestly, verbally, clearly and not a single detail left unsaid.”

And with much reluctance, Harry did. Starting his talk with trailing words and occasional whispers before shifting into long, animated explanations. He told Snape of what happened after he was gone. How Harry locked the door, how he was planning on doing as the Professor had told him. How his relatives and their mighty fists disturbed his work and how, without being aware of where he was going, he found himself on the bridge, alone save for his mind and a lone figure on the other side that he could have only imagined. He spoke of the Knight Bus, of Diagon Alley, of its people and finally, of what he learned about Harry Potter.

“I’m the Boy-Who-Lived. That’s what they called me. Or, well, what they called Harry Potter. I was Harry Evans when I got there.”

“You told me you didn’t know what your parents were called.”

Harry winced, squared his shoulders and looked at the door that led down to the apothecary, “Aunt Marge... her mouth slipped. Called my mother Evans, and that... she had...” he looked right into the black depths of Snape’s eyes, “Bad blood.”

Snape said nothing, and Harry continued.

“Did you know she had dark skin? Darker than mine. And green eyes as well as red hair, much, much redder than mine,” he ran a hand gently through his own, trying to flatten his bangs, “Alexandria Alexander said-”

“Who?” snapped Snape, brows knitted furiously close and eyes narrowed in vague confusion.

“Alexandria Alexander, author of Recent Local History, volume two-” Snape ran a hand down his face before masking his eyes behind two hands, “-said her muse told her she was Indian. Is that true? Doesn’t explain why Aunt Petunia-” Harry swallowed thickly, wrenching his eyes closed and keeping them that way until the nausea rising up his throat came to pass, “Nevermind… I don’t think…”

Snape didn’t seem to mind his trailing words. In fact, he looked rather relieved. The hands that were covering his face fell to his sides. They were skeletal things that dropped limply. At the sight of them, Harry felt an abrupt flash of… something, somewhere in his mind. Not a memory. Not a thought. Not entirely an emotion but a reminder. Long, soft and cool hands. Ruffling his hair, touching his forehead. It hadn’t happened, surely?

But did it ever feel right.

And it was gone long before Harry could desciper it.

“It was,” Snape said dryly, pulling Harry from his thoughts.

Harry lifted his head, brows raised, “What?”

“Your mother, Li… Lily Potter. She was Indian, as the book portrays ,” at Harry’s dazzled look, Snape cleared his throat, “I don’t trust…. Alexander’s work. But this I know to be true.”

Harry found that his voice had betrayed him. His throat had gone paper dry and the words that he meant to speak stolen from his lips. So instead, he choked out a sob. It seized Snape’s attention, as well as mild concern, but he did nothing to stop Harry from messaging his clogged throat while searching internally for the questions he meant to ask.

When Harry made no move to speak, Snape started the conversation once more.

“Does that conclude your discoveries of your past?”

Harry touched his forehead. Specifically the scar that wounded down his skin, “Yes. That, and that people only know gossip about me.”

“People barely know little else,” Snape said, with a snort, eyeing Harry who was flattening down his bangs, “Has anyone recognized you?”

“Other than you?” Harry said with traces of anger, “No, Professor. You’ll be relieved to know that you’re the only sensible bloke about.”

“Watch it, Potter,” came the reply, a low, dangerous hiss escorted with a glare. “You are under my roof once again. Whether that is to your liking or not, that hardly involves me. I deserve every ounce of res-”

“Why did you not tell me that you recognized me?”

Snape took a deep breath and murmured something Harry couldn’t hear, “Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear enough. I-”

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out? After you’ve taught me how to read, how to write…” Harry trailed off once more, lifting his eyes to look at the narrow gaze of the Professor, “Why did you do that, anyway? You didn’t need to teach me anything, and it was clearly a hassle. So why?”

Professor Snape made no answer. Nor did he do anything else. Fixing Harry with a signature glare, he started to impatiently fiddle his fingers over the armrest. Harry thought that the man was pouring out his anger with each tap, because at the end of the tenth one, Snape clasped his hands on his lap, face neutral.

“Seeing as you’re eager to not listen to me, I shan’t speak at all,” he snapped, rattling the table with his stand, “I want you to be in front of the door of the laboratory in exactly two minutes with your shirt.”

Harry made a frantic stand of his own, “No, wait, sir-”

“I, of course, won’t suffer the consequences of your actions. But believe me, Potter-” and he shot Harry a nasty smirk from behind the counter, “It will be a pleasure, seeing you suffer.”

Fuming, Harry made a sharp turn towards his (once again) room, “Suffer your displeasure, you mean,” he hissed under his breath.

Snape’s chuckle rang mockingly in his ears.

*
Snape met him exactly five minutes later.

Harry had spent the remaining three minutes angrily replaying the awful things he’d like to do to the man in his mind. His jacket, sleeve still bloody, hung down his arm, wrinkled into a lump.

“I will not bother ironing your shirt, if it comes to that, Potter,” Snape said, appearing out of nowhere and scaring Harry into a jump. Ignoring Harry’s growl, he opened the door and stepped inside first.

“Do not attempt to look around. Your funeral will be a mighty short event, if you come to fall,” Snape said in an echoing voice, his shoes clicking against metal. Taking a deep breath, Harry hung his head and kept his eyes fixed on the steps, only sparing a glance at the railings to grab hold of them.

The staircase, metal and small, spiralled into a circle as it arched down. Snape was already down and waiting for him with a green work apron, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and hands crossed in front of his chest. Waving a nonchalant hand, he gestured around the shop, “Welcome to my laboratory. Do not touch. A. Thing. Potter. I assure you digging your body fro…”

Harry let the rest of Snape’s words drag in the background as he looked around, eyes growing wide with every look.

Harry didn’t understand why but above them, where a ceiling was meant to be, there were arching panes of glass separated by thin borders. They provided the light needed to see the rest of the laboratory and even Harry had to absorb the impressive sight.

On one side of the wall, there were only cabinets. Two of them held thick, bound books of various sizes and colours and beside those, were shelves and cupboards all filled with jars, phials and glass bottles - iridescent and of different lengths, labeled in sharp, black writing.

That wasn’t all, though. Harry took a step towards the cabinets and raised his head upwards, where on top of the cabinets were even more jars and all sorts of important looking objects hiding frames and papers behind them.

Harry turned to another wall. The one opposite the wall behind him which held a currently working fireplace. Again, more jars. More shelves but among those, herbs hung from thin ropes on the walls. The same applied for the final wall, with cabinets and shelves and herbs, but this time only two of those held empty glass containers. It wasn’t difficult to know why, seeing the table in the middle of the room - the gem of the crown.

A simple, wooden table that held a chaotic order of, well, a chaotic order. A few pots dangled from the ceiling by chains. Papers, mortars, inks and pens were all scattered carelessly over the surface. There were scales, jars of pens and flowers, small boxes holding different coloured herbs, lamps, contraptions, empty glass phials joining other empty glass phias with glass tubes. The whole laboratory looked to be a turmoil of misplaced objects that should have been orderly but had no way to be so.

“...burn you. Understand, Potter?”

“Huh?” Harry whirled around to see Snape who was standing beside a grinder and hourglass, fiddling with the objects (pens, empty bottles, note papers) hoisted on the belt of the apron, “Uh, yes, Professor. I think I have.”

Snape looked up from the watch that was hanging from the belt, raising a brow, “You have listened to my every word.”

“I’ve heard them.”

“Yes, but you haven’t cared for them have you?”

Harry shrugged, averting his eyes towards the table with a shy smile, “It’s a brilliant laboratory.”

Both of Snape’s eyebrows lifted at that. Harry, who was too busy looking at the papers on the walls and a book held open on a stand, didn’t notice Snape following him with curious, confused eyes.

Didn’t notice the flicker of a smile on Professor Snape’s lips.

Didn’t notice it disappear just as quick.

Harry turned to face Snape when he cleared his throat. He had changed his appearance once more and had a pair of big, odd looking round glasses hanging from his neck and a pencil behind his ear.

“For now, your task is to get rid of those horrid stains of yours. I have boiled water-” he pointed at the still simmering pot and a small bucket sitting on the stone, some steam rising from it, “And wash it in the garden. Away from the patches. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

And taking the pot by the handle, Harry walked towards the stairs.

“Potter!”

Harry turned around with a sigh, tilting his head to the side.

"Use the soap outside the water closet. I won't have you walking around with saturated red sleeves," Snape said, pulling his hair back and tying it with a ribbon he had in his hand.

Harry stared, blinking in confusion at the sight in front of him.

"Potter?"

"You're just like Professor Patel. She too told me to wash up the minute I entered the house."

Snape shook his head and turned to face the table, rummaging through the papers, "It's the only sensible thing to do."

"Not where I come from. I heard bathing makes you sick. This isn't any different, is it?"

Snape stared at Harry with a neutral nonchalant gaze and was silent once more. Harry shrugged, making his way up the stairs.

The garden, or yard, was relatively unremarkable. The right side was reserved for the two small garden-patches as well as some pots. Harry did his best to steer clear of the rows of potatoes and onions, balancing the heavy bucket while trying to walk on the grey paving stones. Looking to his left, he could make out where the panes above the laboratory started and berated himself for not taking better note of it earlier, considering the trips he had taken to the water closet.

Grabbing the soap which was inside a small bowl beside an empty pile, Harry crouched down on the other side of the water closet and bent down, balancing the rest of the shirt on his shoulder while he poured some water down on the sleeve and began to scrub.

While the blood slowly poured down to the dark soil, Harry began to think.

So the apothecary belonged to the Patels. Harry's mind slowly drifted to the objects and contraptions down at the laboratory and apothecary, and wondered whether Snape or the Patel's themselves were rich. Buying so many jars and materials had to cost money. And even if you ignored that, the building itself had some… aspects that Harry was sure normal houses couldn’t afford. One of them being the hand pump they had in the garden itself, which was a luxury in it's own. The other being what Snape had called a filter, which cleaned water (cleaned water!) which Snape would later boil to ensure it stayed that way. And finally, there was the water closet. Cleaner than anything Harry had ever used, even though in order to use, you had to crouch down, as there was no seat to sit on.

Harry learned not to complain, though. For the first time in his life, he had felt clean here, and didn’t feel any shame for it at all, despite the tales Edwin had told them about how washing themselves would only bring death upon their heads. No, Harry thought while hanging his wet shirt over the fence and grabbing the bucket, even if Snape ordered him to a bath, he wouldn’t complain at all.

Rolling down his sleeves, Harry climbed back into the shop and slipped past the open door into the laboratory, careful as to not slip on the metal stairs and heaved the bucket down beside the fireplace with exhausted relief.

Snape didn't look behind him, so Harry chose to step forward instead, peeking out from behind the man to find him writing multiple sharp words on the papers in front of him before his masterful hands grabbed hold of a small bowl and began to mix the ingredients inside into a mushy substance.

Flexing his fingers, which Harry only noticed now were filled with small cuts and waxy in some areas from past burns, Snape lifted the small bowl and barely dodged Harry as he turned around. He fixed Harry with a glare, once his composure and balance had returned.

“I see you have arrived. The shirt, I hope I’ll find in sufficient condition.”

“I think you will, Professor,” Harry said, clasping his hands behind his back, “What are you doing?

“Balm, for a client,” Snape said, mixing the substance as he walked towards one of the cabinets, pulling open one drawer to reveal various metal containers before walking to the other side and doing the same, only retrieving a small, glass container with a lid, “For future reference, I ask you to not sneak behind me whilst I work. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape didn’t acknowledge him, but returned to the table in the middle of the room and placed both the jar and bowl side by side, removing the lid of the jar and tipping the bowl to pour the sticky-looking mush with the help of a spoon into the jar. Lidding that, he walked past Harry, bringing with him the sharp smell of herbs and propped the now full glass container on the mantelpiece.

Harry thought that the man would continue to make another balm or medicine. But instead, he dug into one of the book cabinets, pulling back the spines. Harry watched with some curiosity before quickly becoming bored, moving towards the table to eye the objects he found so peculiar once more. That is, until Snape returned, dropping a book, newspaper and the small blackboard and chalk they used in his hands carelessly.

“Learning starts with the fundamentals of language, that is, the alphabet. However-” and he tapped the book in Harry’s arm with a finger, “It does not stop there. Today, for the whole of one hour, you will read the newspaper. For the next, you will be copying down said articles in order to improve your atrocious scrawl into a comprehensible text. Well? Begin!”

And so for the next hour, while Snape constantly moved around the lab, working diligently on something or other, Harry was hunched over the newspaper on his lap, finding it difficult to be comfortable on the wooden chair and frequently craning his limbs from side to side for it.

By the end of the first hour, Harry was bored with stories of a series of houses catching fire in Blackpool, the lack of development when it came to the search of Sirius Black, and the usual rubbish advertising that went into the papers, all written in words Harry, most of the time, only pretended to understand for fear of being shamed for it.

Dropping the paper on the floor at the sound of the clock, Harry stretched his arms above his head. A hand messaging his sore muscles, he turned to face Snape, who was still working delicately with the scales. He hadn’t acknowledged the clock. And Harry, with prior experience, wasn’t willing to remind him of it.

And so, Harry moved on to the more laborious task. Copying down the articles proved to be fun, at first. The chalk moving rather smoothly on the material and composing some fine letters. But at the end of the first fifteen minutes, it had lost all fun and after half an hour, a throbbing pain was surging from his wrist.

He looked up, hoping to catch Snape taking a break, but disappointedly turned back to his chalk and board.

He almost jumped up when the chime came, ringing exactly eight times.

But Snape hadn’t ceased to work.

Harry looked around in uncertainty, for what he didn’t know, but hoping that Snape would take notice. Five minutes passed. Harry waited some more, telling himself to wait for another five. Ten, fifteen and at seventeen, when it appeared Snape wouldn’t be stopping his work, Harry chose to interrupt him when he was walking towards the cabinets.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Snape’s head jerked up from the paper he was holding. Harry felt as though he had disturbed an injured animal with fright. If animals could declare such emotion, that is, with paling features and ghastly wide eyes.

“S-sir?”

But with a shake of his head, Snape, the usual Snape, was back.

“Yes, Mr Potter?”

“Two hours are through, sir.”

“Pardon?”

Harry pointed at the clock hung above the chimney, “Two hours, sir. It’s over. I’ve completed the work.”

Snape’s thin lips first parted some, before pressing into a thinner line all together. He walked back to the table and dropped the papers into a neat pile. Work now abandoned, he unknotted the apron, changing it above the chair that had pressed against Harry for the last two hours. Relinquishing any other objects he bore, he strode towards the stairs. Only a vague gesture ushered Harry to follow.

Once out the door, Snape waited for Harry to do the same before closing the door behind him. And a few strides later, they were out another door and staring into the back garden.

“Sir?” Harry asked, noting how the dark bags under Snape’s eyes had grown prominent, “What are we doing?”

Snape regarded Harry with a side-glance, and seemed to be doing the same with the words Harry had spoken. Probably considering them to be foolish. Silly incantations, he imagined Snape saying, remembering the word from one clipping. But he didn’t. Instead, Snape bent down and sat on one of the steps, hands wrapped above his knees.

Harry almost reached to catch him, surprised by the unceremonious way he collapsed on the stone, and after a brief look from Snape, he too sat down.

A comfortable silence fell around the two.

Harry didn’t know why. And was sure Snape didn’t either. But the silence of their words, filled instead with the ambience of the street behind them and the passing breeze was nothing short of calm.

Snape broke it just as Harry’s mind became soothed by it, but he couldn’t find it in him to be mad.

“Potter-” Harry looked up, pulling his feet closer, “-I am little less than inclined to be impatient, and your… proceedings this week have very nearly exhausted my endurance. And so, until I say otherwise, it is in both our favor for you to listen to me speak.”

Harry nodded, feeling entirely guilty and partially unwanted.

“You’ve summarised your tale rather loosely. I have no words in regards to it, but press you to be more cautious around the usage of writing utensils.”

Harry stared, and Snape cleared his throat, “On the request of Professor Patel.”

“She told you?”

Snape smirked, “Among a few things. Must have slipped it in between scolding me to take my shoes off.”

This time, Harry grinned along, extending his legs so the heels of his shoes were touching the soil.

Another comfortable silence.

“She’s grown fond of you, I gather.”

Harry inclined his head, but Snape wasn’t eager in meeting his eye. His gaze was pinned on the vegetable patches and keen on keeping them right there.

“Isn’t she with everyone?”

“Only those she scolds or trusts enough to laugh around, I hear.”

Harry shuddered, the laughter suddenly echoing in his ears, “It’s terrifying, for a lady such as her. Or a lady at all! I can only think of that lunatic Black laughing with that voice.”

“What?”

“What?”

Snape, amusingly, looked to be too confused on what sentence to be confused about. Eyes narrowing and lines forming from consternation, before giving up completely and changing the subject.

“Are you informed of what happened after your disappearance?”

“Only v-v-vague details,” Harry said, testing yet another word he had read and learned the definition of, “Will you tell me of them?”

Snape nodded, dropping his hands to his sides, “In short, your Uncle and his sister, as I later discovered during our discussion, wrought havoc in the shop. Demolished the stock, stripped the wallpapers and broke the windows. I arrived from my house visit to find them being escorted by officers, and alerted the Patel’s after sensing your absence. There was a trial, and the two had to pay a fine and make up for the loss, which was also provided by the insurance company. Your disappearance was brought up, and Vernon Dursley agreed for you to work for me until your efforts repay the debt,"
It wasn’t anything different from what the Patel siblings had told Harry (besides the past part), so he merely nodded along.

“Also, I have utilized the opportunity to notify the appropriate authorities of your previous master. Last I heard he’s been escorted to trial as well, and your friends placed together into an orphanage.”

At that, Harry’s head shot up. A bolt of shock, which later shifted into joy and irritation struck through him and he pushed himself up to stand in front of Snape.

“You’re only telling me this now?” he cried, throwing his arms to the side.

“You had gone deaf, as I recall. Charmed to know that is no longer the case.”

“Well, I-” Harry began, but stopped fumingly at the amused look he received from Snape, “Will you please at least tell me which orphanage they were taken to?”

“That I do not know.”

“What? How could you not-”

“I am not all-knowing, Potter, though I admit I have often wished to be. However, provided you answer some of my questions, I am more than willing to find out their location.”

Harry’s shoulders dropped, and the next of his words came with much hesitance and in a restless whisper, “And if I’m uncomfortable with your questions?”

“I will do my best to steer the conversation to a topic you’re more comfortable with.”

Running a hand through his messy hair, Harry weighed his options for some time. His gaze fluctuating throughout the garden and hands refusing to remain still. But at the end of his contemplation, he gave a stern nod.

“Fine. Ask away,” he said, sitting once again on his previous spot.

Snape turned to face him, his long legs pulled under him and back rigid, “I’m aware that you have run away shortly after your relative’s arrival, but can you expound on what exactly urged you to take flight?”

“I don’t understand, Professor.”

“To give an example,” Snape rubbed his chin with his finger that held a thin, long scar; eyes searching the garden, “Was it some statements they made? A particular threat? Fear of punishment? Guilt for… hurting your aunt?”

Harry’s hands froze in his lap, and his mouth felt too dry, too soon. He licked his lips for good measure. No words emerged, though, and Snape must have sensed his distress, because he continued.

“Hurt, as in the reaction to ginger she inhaled, swallowed and had her skin exposed to. There is little medical research, in the matter. But it is common knowledge that particular substances may not agree with particular individuals. Your aunt is no longer in danger.”

Not dead. Harry released a shaky breath at the thought, body sagging in its own accord and not too soon.

“You have yet to answer my question, Mr Potter.”

Harry laughed shakily, “I don’t know, sir. I-It was an accident. I didn’t mean to throw the ginger jar… She lunged at me, and at that moment, the jar flew out of my hands and Aunt Marge collapsed against the jars. A few of them dropped and when I smelled one-” he cut of abruptly, finding it difficult to go on with the sudden tightness in his chest and dizziness in his head, “There was t-this smell… Sharp, and tingly in the tongue. Sour. It- It smelt like… It was her, Professor, and when I… I ran away, and I wasn’t myself anymore. I didn’t know where I was, what I was doing… completely...cold and-”

“Easy, Potter. There are a few things I don’t understand,” Snape stopped him when Harry began to heave, holding out his hands in front of the shaking boy, “So your disappearance was induced by a smell? A sour, sharp smell?”

Harry nodded jerkily.

“And this smell, which turned you unresponsive, numb and confused, reminded you of an individual?”

Another, somewhat uncertain, nod. Individual, yes, but more than that. A memory.

“Who was it, Mr Potter?”

Pressing his lips together, Harry dropped his head.

“Potter.”

“My aunt. Other aunt. Uncle Vernon’s wife, Aunt Petunia,” he managed to say between breaths, looking at Snape with burning eyes, “Is that all?”

Snape looked ready for more questions, but sighed and shook his head. And grateful, Harry didn’t wait a second to follow the man back inside the house, a looming feeling suggesting that their conversation was far from over.