Back inside, Harry lifted his materials from the wooden chair and sat down. Behind him, Snape was getting ready to continue working. Harry waited until he wore the apron tied around his thin waist, and spoke.

"Will you explain something to me, sir?"

Snape turned around, hands still behind his back, "And what would that be, Mr Potter?"

"It's about, well, I suppose it's about both of us."

Snape swept his hair back and tied it into a messy loop behind his head, "I'm afraid you will have to expound on that, Mr Potter."

"I meant to ask you…" he clumsily fiddled with the chalk, finger tips white with the dust, "You didn't explain why you didn't tell me you knew me. I would like to know why you did that...I think," he added the last part after seeing the look on Snape's face, which was a mixture of confusion and frustration, a raise of a brow daring him to go on.

"Will you be content with any answer I give, so long as it is the truth?"

"Content, sir?"

"Satisfaction, Potter. Of the answer. Well, will you?"

Harry eyed the book in his hands, passing it from one to the other, the worn cover spelling out a foreign word. Snape hadn't done anything remotely close to Edwin or Un-... Snape was alright. Harry lifted his head and nodded, shuffling the book to his other hand.

"So long as it's the truth, sir."

"In that case, it was nothing more than a failure of my own will," Snape said, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and upon seeing the confused look on Harry's face, continued sternly.

"Partially, my reason was to make sure it was really you. Another obstacle soon came forth, however, as I did not know how to explain the situation to you; revealing your parentage and your history without invoking suspicion or mistrust on your side," he paused, voice getting slower and slower. Hands gripping the counter, he tapped along the wood long after he continued, "I had the idea to notify a close acquaintance who was well involved with your matters, of your existence. That is, until you ran away, and it would hardly be appropriate to write to him after a second disappearance, one which I have some part in."

Harry's hands curled around the newspaper, meddling the words together. The letters were as comprehensible as the feeling in his chest now. Taking a deep breath, he spared himself a few moments of silence. His surroundings pulled back into a smudge of colour, and his emotions oddly reminded him of those he felt at the Leaky Cauldron.

Guilt, fear, anger. Memories he refused to think about. Emotions he didn't want to feel. The paper crumpled further in his hands, and he stashed it behind him while he made a forceful stand.

"Thank you, sir," he muttered under his breath, lifting the chair to pull it across the room, right below a line of herbs hung by some string.

"The conversation has just started, Mr Potter," Snape's voice carried across the room, right as Harry opened the book, the light filtering from the panes catching the dust in the room.

Harry closed the book, balancing it on the sewn knee of his pants, "What else is there to talk about, sir?"

"Aren't you concerned about the following weeks, child? About the steps we ought to take from this day forth?"

"I… I didn't- that is, it didn't come to my mind."

"Clearly," Snape drawled, lifting a hand towards Harry, "Chasing something, or in this case someone isn't a plausible method."

Harry bit his tongue, book lifting up and down with his jumping knee, "What is that supposed to mean?"

"What it means entirely. Now-" he pulled out a fresh piece of paper, scrawling something sharply across its length, "We will have to write a letter to Professor Dumbledore -yes that is his name do stop gaping, Potter- and arrange for a visit. I daresay he'll be drunk with joy upon the recent news."

Harry watched Snape's ink pen carving across the page, fast yet diligent. The motion continued until the end of the page, at which Snape lifted his ink pen and lay the paper to dry. He wondered if he'd be able to write like such one day. Pen in hand, with more words at his disposal than he and his friends combined.

Not long into this dream, Snape pushed away from the table. Sauntering toward one of the cabinets, he slid his hands across the spines of books before stopping to retrieve one.

Harry didn't need to wait long to see what it was, as Snape dropped it across his lap soon after.

"Ma… ma-tha-ma-tic-s?"

"...Close enough. It's pronounced mathematics."

"Right," Harry agreed, lifting the cover for a look inside, "What is mathematics, Professor?"

"Mathematics, Potter. Stop pronouncing the the so harshly. And to answer your question-" Harry very nearly caught his fingers between the pages he was leisurely turning when Snape slid his own between the pages and managed to open to where 'Unit One' began, "-it's the knowledge of numerals and their functions. Remember the numbers, Potter?"

Harry gave a curt nod.

"This-" he tapped on the page with a sharp nail, "-is their usage."

Flipping through the book, Harry found that in addition to the numbers, there also were foreign symbols indicating what to do with the given combination of numbers. Harry lifted his head, book still open in his hands.

"When did you get this, sir?"

"The day of your disappearance. I was planning on walking you through a slower pace, but now, with the recent developments, I have changed my mind."

Not paying much mind, Harry skimmed through the pages, filling the room with the rough sound of rifling paper.

"We'll just have to consider this a part of your punishment, Mr Potter."

Harry's finger made a sudden slip down a page's side. With a yelp of pain, he stood up abruptly, book flying to the floor and was just about to put his now bleeding and stinging finger into his mouth when Snape's hand wrapped around his wrist.

Heart drumming against his chest, Harry meekly lifted his eyes to Snape's. He wasn't looking at Harry, though, black eyes pinned on Harry's finger. Harry followed his gaze to the throbbing skin, wincing at the cut and the blood sliding down.

"Refrain from such action in the future, Potter," he said, this time meeting Harry's gaze, which Harry averted immediately.

With a sigh, Snape dragged Harry towards the table, leaving the boy to walk towards the drawers. In his absence, Harry squeezed his finger, biting his lip as to not groan at the throbbing pain.

Snape taking hold of his wrist again was distraction enough, until the blood was wiped from his skin.

Snape squeezed a small cloth over the open cut, lifting Harry's other hand and placing them around the cloth for him to do the same.

Harry applied the pressure as Snape let go, a tired look on his face, "What am I to do with you, Potter?"

Not punish me, perhaps?

Harry swallowed thickly, suddenly too afraid. His shoulders tightened even further when Snape bent down to his short height. Snape tilted his head, and Harry lowered his head, persistent in not meeting his eye.

"Potter," Snape said dryly, his voice disturbing the silence of the room, "Look at me."

Playing with the ends of the patched cloth, "Why?" Harry answered quickly without much thought, voice tight.

"Because…" Snape said flatly, sounding on the edge of saying something unpleasant, "Because, Potter, I said so."

That, of course, wasn't enough reason for Harry to comply.

Snape must have understood, because with a swift movement, he pulled Harry's chin between his fingers and forced it up to meet his eyes.

Harry's heart jerked uncomfortably, his hair standing up in a spike of fear. Snape looked to be searching for something, his dark eyes alight from the filtering sunlight above, which highlighted just how greasy his hair was. And while Harry waited for those black eyes to stop dwelling on Harry's own, he couldn't help the gradually rising fear and… well, wasn't that odd? Harry felt sad. Harry felt bloody awful. His lips trembled, just above Snape's cold fingers and shoulders tight with tension and fear hung down, slagging like his posture.

The years of memories came storming down in his mind, and Harry wanted to cry.

The nights in the cupboard. The lonely days. All those times he wanted some warmth, and those times he chased after his family, his cousin especially, in the hope for a friend. He had found them once, in the dwellings of the backstreets and freezing cellars, only to lose them once again. Here, again, he was lonely and afraid, with emotions he never had to deal with before. Guilt, hatred. Why he wasn't enough for his family, and why he couldn't be enough now.

Harry wanted to cry.

And he did.

The burning in his eyes poured out into silent tears, sliding down his cheeks, down his jaw and dripping to his cloth.

Drip, drop.

All the while Snape stared at him, hand frozen and eyes going as wide as they possibly could. Harry didn't have much to look at after that. With his head hanging low and shoulders slouched, he was mindlessly staring at his shoes while his tears fell.

He felt so weak. So cold. He didn't want to get punished. Not for this. Not for something he didn't mean to do.

"Potter?"

"P-please, sir I- Maybe you could, I just think-"

"Potter."

"I-I really didn't mean… you know I wanted to come back but I just, and with my family I couldn't-

"Potter if you'd just listen-"

Harry sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, "I'm sorry, sir. I really am. I know I do terrible things. Things I shouldn't do. I just… I'm so…" and at that, he lifted his head, looking right into Snap's eyes, tears falling fast, "I-I mess up! I feel so angry, at you and everything. My friends are away, I have such a good-good place with you and I don't feel I deserve it. I know I-" he sobbed harshly at this, hiding his eyes behind his hands, shoulders pulled into his body, the light in the room suddenly too bright, "I let them to this. I let them in! I br-broke, I know the promise I wasn't supposed to break and I did! I hate that I did so, and I'm sorry but please, sir… do-don't punish me, please."

For a while, there was only his sobbing. Dry heaves, the wiping of tears that refused to fall and the light from the panes shut out by a veil of clouds, as though to match his mood. Snape was still quiet. Too quiet. It came to a point where, out of concern, Harry looked up and found that he was merely regarding him with a flat, neutral gaze.

Harry ducked his head, and urged himself to stop crying.

"Are you through?" Snape asked, and Harry gave a jerky nod. With a sigh, Snape rose from his crouch and slid a hand into his breast pocket, shaking the object he had retrieved under Harry's eyes.

Harry took the handkerchief without Snape needing to say anything, wiping his eyes and nose.

He offered to give the handkerchief back. Once again, Snape refused.

"There wasn't any need for such theatrics, Potter, as they won't get you anywhere with me."

Harry's head shot up, an unattractive noise coming from his neck. Snape's brows were pulled down, and his hands were tightly folded across his chest.

"But sir-"

"This act might have worked with-" Snape cut himself off, lips still parted. Harry tried to work out what made the man pause, his brows knitted tightly close. Just as quick it had come, however, the expression was gone.

The light returned as Snape continued.

"You are to listen to me very closely, Potter, as I won't repeat myself. Am I understood?"

Harry nodded, albeit hesitantly, and looped his hands behind his back.

Snape shifted from his spot, one finger lifting to point at Harry sharply, "As compensation for your actions during this past week, you will be responsible for a list of tasks. I am going to list them now. Listen well," and before Harry could remember what the word 'compensate' meant, Snape was already continuing with the list.

"I will wake you at precisely six in the morning, after which you will tend to the garden; may it be weeding and watering the vegetable patches, or even cleansing the water closet or ridding the dust from the laboratory's windows, as they tend to collect dirt at a profound speed. This will continue until eight, at the very least. I will prepare a small breakfast, you shall clean the cutlery and bowls afterwards. And finally, for exactly four hours each day, you will busy yourself with studies."

Harry's mouth fell open, his eyes growing wide and in his obvious surprise, the handkerchief drifted to the floor.

"Of course, this time may possibly change in the future, perhaps increasing to six hours by the end of the week," Snape muttered the last part to himself, and Harry barely heard him from the buzz in his ears. Surely this couldn't be his punishment? It was more along the lines of a gift! Four hours each day to perfect his reading, what else could Harry ever ask for!

He didn't hear the rest of Snape's monologue, but when he was finished, and asked if Harry had understood everything, Harry gave an enthusiastic nod and was ready to hug the man.

He didn't, of course. But one could always dream.

"Before you resume your studies, however, I have one final thing to share with you."

Harry sat down as Snape gestured with a hand, Snape himself leaning on the desk with his back to it.

Lifting an empty jar from the table, Snape slid his fingers down it's side, stopping at around the middle to look at Harry, "We have a schedule, this week. I'm afraid the shop lost some important stock, many thanks to the stampede of those two oafs."

Harry ran a hand down his arm, cheeks burning.

"This week, the shop will be kept open until past noon. During this time, while you busy yourself with your chores and studies, I will work on orders given to me by clients. At two in the afternoon, do not be surprised to find that I will be making house visits."

"House visits, sir?"

"I am not merely a chemist, Mr Potter. I am familiar with some medical knowledge, and exercise it with those I can help with the materials I have here," he gestured around the laboratory with one hand, jar sitting firm in the other, "Though I don't doubt I'll have much to do this week. However, should that occur, I cannot take you with me, and we will have to find someone to temporarily keep an eye on you."

Harry nodded, leaving his seat to pick up the fallen objects, "Is that all, sir?"

Again, Snape looked to have some words to say. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair, placing the jar back on the table, "For now. Oh, and expect the acquaintance I spoke of -Headmaster Dumbledore- to pay us a visit sometime in the following weeks. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes," Harry said, squinting at the mathematics book and lifting it for a clear look, "Will you be teaching this to me yourself, sir?"

"Do you find any other candidates, Mr Potter?"

"I thought you taught only che-che, uh…"

"Chemistry?" Snape offered, looking rather amused at Harry's confusion, the side of his lips lifting up, "True, Mr Potter, though you can trust me to teach you some basic mathematics."

Dropping the books on the chair, Harry walked closer to Snape. The light was back, now, and crawling down the walls of the laboratory, softly illuminating the floor. Taking a deep breath, Harry stepped out of the path of the light and with as much courage as he could collect (which really wasn't much) Harry asked, "Will you teach me chemistry?"

The question must have been far more intrusive than Harry imagined, because Snape's expression became odd and he seemed to regain some colour to his cheeks.

"Excuse me?"

"Chemistry, Professor," Harry continued because Snape hadn't scolded him yet, winding his fingers between the folds of his shirt, "I am sort of… well, chemistry looks interesting. And after I repay the debt, I have to leave, and I want to learn as much as I possibly can while with you."

The colour Snape's cheeks had gained fell immediately, and his lips were pulled into a thin line. His silence continued for a minute, leaving Harry nervous and considering stepping back from the request. He opened his mouth to do so, the words fresh in his mouth-

"I will be pleased to teach you, Mr Potter."

And for now, perhaps it wasn't bad, after all.

As promised, Snape woke Harry dreadfully early from an already poor sleep. The sky was a murky grey colour, too early as to be morning, too bright as to still be night.

Once Snape was out the room, confident Harry wouldn't fall back to sleep, Harry pushed himself clumsily up from the bed. The sheets were, as always, tangled around his body, half dangling to the floor.

Cautious to not crumple to the floor, Harry rose unsteadily, mouth hurting from the yawns he couldn't stifle. Dreadfully early, this was. He was used to waking up early, back at the cellars, but after his little excursion to Diagon Alley, where he could rise at whatever hour he pleased, he found it difficult to fall back into the prior schedule. Yes, dreadfully early…

With a scowl, he pulled off his night-shirt, shrugging on the tattered shirt Snape had offered for the garden work.

Snape met him in the parlor once he was ready.

"I expect you no earlier than eight," he dully stated, sweeping past him and into his room.

With a sigh, Harry disappeared down the stairs, almost tripping as he did so, further dampening his sleep-deprived mood.

The garden, in actuality, didn't need much work. Getting a bucket, Harry placed it under the pump. The pump creaked threateningly as he pulled on the lever, jarring his ears. The rust was starting to grow past the pipe and into the screws, and while it didn't stop the freezing water from pouring down, Harry was still concerned.

Despite the backsplash of water on his pants, Harry wrapped both hands around the handle. It didn't come easily, as he wanted, the water surging inside the pail in thick spurts. Harry took a breath, steadying his feet and heaving the handle.

Hands on his hips and back aching, Harry swept a quick gaze over the garden patches, a frown forming. From what he could see (and it often wasn't much) some weeds were growing beside the potatoes. He shrugged. Harry had to often do yard work, back… then, and pulling up his sleeves and getting his hands dirty wasn't always boring. And so, he did exactly that. With shirt-sleeves and pant-legs rolled up, and shoes pulled off, Harry Potter was soon crawling around the vegetables, snatching any nasty weeds on his path.

All alone, not a soul watching from a particular window up in the house.

His hands soiled and sweat dripping from the side of his face, Harry soon stood up, a sharp grin on his lips. He had done well, he prided himself, and it hadn't taken long either. His satisfaction didn't survive long, however, as he stumbled on the bucket, dropping down with it. It was only half-full once he righted it and his pants were smeared with mud.

Right. Punishment, Harry remembered crossley, jerking his hand out of the mud. Some awful, great punishment.

Two hours later, a very dirty Harry placed the bucket in its rightful place, treading over the grass barefoot. Oddly enough, Snape met him by the backdoor, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor.

"Are you certain you haven't gone for a swim in the mud instead?" he tiredly asked, running a hand down his face, "One day upon your return, and you're in need of a bath already."

"I didn't bathe at Diagon Alley, sir," Harry added, thinking it would have helped. It didn't. And Snape responded with his face taking a very interesting expression.

"Well," he spoke, voice laced with disgust and a mild touch of regret, "A picnic, I suppose. Wait here. And if you value your life-" he gave him a sharp glare, "-do NOT come in."

Harry didn't, but he still sat down on the wood. Swinging his legs under him, he savored the feeling of the grass tickling the soles of his feet until Snape came back with a bowl of oatmeal, forbidding him from eating until he had washed his hands.

The rest of the day continued as though Harry hadn't left. He did take a bath, eventually, and had to wash his muddy clothes, wearing his spare pair of pants afterwards while down at the laboratory, working on mathematics, reading and, towards the end of the afternoon, chemistry.

And though Harry didn't admit it, he knew he wasn't subtle in hiding his smile, which would crack through occasionally. But if Snape saw it, he didn't comment. And when he bid the Professor good night, he was still smiling into his pillow, wrapped tightly in the warm blankets.

All until he woke up from a nightmare, the night still dark, scratching his arms back to sleep…

The next morning was profoundly ordinary until after noon, when, instead of having a second chemistry lesson (the first included an introduction into atoms), Snape sent Harry to his room to get ready, as he had a house visit to make. Harry met him downstairs, taking his jacket from where it hung on Snape's arm. Snape waited until Harry had his cap on, his scar out of sight, before opening the door onto the bustling street and locking it behind them.

Twice, for good measure. Probably for emphasis.

Without sparing another look, Snape pocketed the keys, his coat billowing behind him while he made his way down the street.

"Do keep up, Mr… Evans," he called above his shoulder, facing back to the street as Harry stepped forward. Harry didn't pester him about the use of Lily's maiden name, thinking it to be Snape's paranoia of someone recognizing him in the street. Well, Harry couldn't see anyone in this street recognizing him, engaged as they were in both shopping and conversation. He didn't pay much mind to them, though. Thinking about his mother had brought some memories back from reading the book. Specifically the parts he couldn't bring himself to finish, leaving his heart clenched and eyes burning.

He didn't cry as they turned right to the stairs that led up to the familiar neighbourhood of Professor Patel's home.

He came very close when she opened the door.

"I wasn't expecting you this soon," she said with a smile, opening the door wider, "You're very lucky I'm home."

"Indeed," Snape agreed, urging Harry forward with a hand on his shoulder, "May we both come in? I won't be long, but I would like to speak with you. Privately."

She nodded, though Harry noticed her fingers tensing as she held open the door. Inside, Professor Patel stopped Harry before he could take another step, nodding to his shoes.

"Oh, of course," he muttered, ears burning. Wrestling his shoes off, he lined them right before the small carpet began, his socks sliding on the fabric.

"You know the way, Harry," Professor Patel said, stepping beside him and sliding his shoes into an empty slot, "I'll meet you there shortly."

Harry glanced between the two with interest, curious of what they would talk about. It would concern him, no doubt, and Harry would much rather hear what adults had to say about him.

Snape nodded towards the hallway, noting his gaze, "I'll be back for you soon, Potter. Granted, you may not like your punishment, but I have no intention of lifting it yet," he said, and turned to face Professor Patel, finishing their conversation.

Turning his back to them, Harry started down the hall, the hushed voices of the professors' following him.

Entering the living room, Harry sat down on the armchair. Sitting didn't help much, however. His nerves were rising at random intervals, making him tap his foot on the floor with uneven passes. Licking his lips, Harry pushed himself up from the chair and marched towards the wooden bookcases on the other side of the room.

There weren't many things on display. A few books, some trinkets, and one single photograph of a family of four (the Patels, no doubt), yellow along the edges, though the date on the bottom was only ten years back.

Harry moved along, hand collecting dust as he dragged it over the wood before coming to a section behind a glass shutter, which held what looked to be a small stack of newspapers.

Not in the desire to get into any major trouble in the foreseeable future, Harry pulled his hand back from the handle. The newspapers could wait, and so could Harry.

Both didn't wait long. Some five minutes later, Professor Patel joined Harry in the room, a strained smile on her face.

"Welcome one again, Harry," she greeted, motioning toward the sofa, "Have a seat."

Harry shuffled his feet, glancing at the newspapers from the side of his blurry vision as he sat down.

"Are you always at home, Professor Patel?" Harry asked, still stealing the occasional glance at the newspapers, hoping she'd notice.

She gave an odd sort of nod and scratched her cheek, "Very nearly. I don't have much to do outside except for shopping errands. Cleaning and aiding my brother takes much of my time."

"Will he…" Harry began, choosing his words carefully before dropping the matter entirely, "Nevermind. Uh, what will I be doing, today?"

Professor Patel straightened on her seat, joining her fingers in her lap, "I had the idea that we might talk, if you'd agree."

"Talk about what?"

"Oh, many things," she said, lifting a hand and gesturing towards him, "You, your stay with Professor Snape, to give an example. Have you anything in mind?"

Harry frowned, gazing at the glass case as to distract her, "Not anything interesting enough."

To his relief, Professor Patel followed his gaze to the glass, a smile of understanding lifting her lips. With a smooth stand, she stepped towards the case, her skirts sweeping over the floor. She gestured him closer, and Harry moved beside her, glad he didn't need to indulge in conversation yet.

Opening the case, Professor Patel slipped her finger under the first newspaper and closed it again. Her hold was gentle, as though the newspaper would tear at the smallest wind. Harry took it with both hands, glad to have something to read other than the boring book Snape had given him.

His eyes went wide.

"This says… New York Times. New York? Isn't that in-"

"The United States? Precisely," Professor Patel said rather proudly, "My father is there at the moment. He sends letters. I ask him to send newspapers. Very valuable, news from the other nations," she then went on to run a finger down the spine of each newspaper, naming the counties as she went.

"These are from the United States. This hefty pile comes from South Africa, and the final pile from a multitude of countries, including France. Too bad I cannot understand much of it," she said, leading him towards the sofa.

"When did this arrive?" Harry lifted the one in his hands, reading the date April 10,1874,"

"Oh, dear… The middle of June, if I remember," she said, holding her chin, "Yes… might be- No, middle of June," she confirmed, nodding along, "Nothing much to read, save for the front page."

"What's on the front page?" Harry asked, unfolding the newspaper carefully, feeling as though he was holding something quite valuable, "What is it about?"

"Why don't you read it?"

Harry took off his cap, flattening his hair down, "I'm not a fast reader."

"Ah," Professor Patel nodded, coming to sit beside him, she lifted a hand and placed it around the newspaper, her free hand pointing at the title, "Well, the text is overwhelming. In summary, a poor girl - Mary, I think her name is - had to be taken from her adopted mother, as she was being physically assaulted by her. The…" she brought the newspaper closer, searching the column under Inhuman Treatment of Little Waif , "Ah! The American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals bought the case, I read, and the adopted mother was charged."

Harry was under the impression that she was watching him very closely as she explained. He didn't notice much, though. A sudden cold clenched his bones, and his foot began to tap along the floor. Out of all the newspapers and books, he had picked the one similar to his own… relatives.

"Harry?" Professor Patel called his name, dropping a hand on his shoulder but pulling it back once he flinched, "Are you alright?"

Harry nodded, folding the newspaper unnecessarily harshly and placing it in her open hand, "Yes, uh, poor girl," he agreed, tapping the newspaper, "Hope she is… Hope she found someone to care for her."

There was a moment of silence, as Harry didn't know what to say. Unlike yesterday, the cloudy weather cast a gloomy atmosphere, affecting even the house itself. And with the newspaper still in sight, not much kept Harry from twisting his fingers together.

Professor Patel took a sharp breath, "I do not want to lie to you, Harry, or sugar coat your predicament, as they say. You're a smart child. I'm sure you already understood the conversation I am trying to make."

Harry nodded, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, "You think… you think I had something similar?"

"Me? No. Not yet," she shook her head, "Professor Snape did, however. He asked me to speak to you about it, as I have experience."

"Experience in what?"

"In speaking to those with similar history."

"That is not comforting, Professor."

She paused, licking her lips, "Will you let me continue, at least?"

Another nod. A sigh of relief from the Professor, poorly hidden.

"We do not have to have this conversation yet, about you, about your troubles. In fact, I agree that if you are tense, we may continue some other time," Professor Patel said, her usual soft voice grown serious and loud, "I wish to help you, as Professor Snape wishes, for he requested I speak with you on the topic."

Harry's head shot up. He found it mildly threatening, having Snape take notice of… well, he didn't know what the man had seen to urge Patel to speak with him, but nevertheless, he felt uncomfortably irritated that Snape hadn't consulted him about it first.

"So," he managed through a clenched jaw, "We don't have to talk about it now?"

"I just wanted to have the conversation set, as a reminder for you. Perhaps… yes, a reminder... We can continue another time. But-" at that, Harry looked up again, "-I still want to talk with you. To some extent. So, I will ask a single question, and you may answer however you like, and we'll continue the conversation from there. Is that alright?"

Harry wasn't convinced. How could he be? The Professor wanted to talk to him about topics he wasn't comfortable even with thinking of yet. He eyed Patel, biting his lip.

"What kind of question?"

She leaned back on the sofa, hands on her back, "Just this: Who are you, Harry? What kind of person is Harry, for you?"

That had, at least, calmed the slowly rising anger in his chest. He'd expected himself to lash out immediately after Patel had started the conversation, demanding it wasn't anyone's business if his uncle… if he…

No, he didn't lash out. Instead, he made one terrible decision. Without thinking, Harry answered with an embarrassing tone of confidence.

"I'm Harry Potter."