Harry woke up with a start at 5:30 when the strident tones of a bagpipe blasted through the village. Across the room, he heard Snape roll off of the bed and hit the ground with a curse.

"Oh, shut up!" An angry female voice shouted from somewhere outside, but the bagpipes continued.

"What in blazes—?" Snape muttered, and Harry smirked in the dark. "Shut up, Potter."

"I didn't say anything!" Harry protested indignantly.

"You were thinking too loud," Snape groaned, shuffling to the kitchen. "Go back to bed."

Too late, Harry thought, smiling when a dog started howling somewhere along with the bagpipes.

A chill draft came down the chimney across from Harry, and he shivered, drawing his blanket closer around his shoulders. 

It was amazing how quickly the body became adjusted to comforts. It was something he'd first noticed when he got used to three full meals a day only a week after arriving at Grimmauld Place this past year. Since the trial, he'd spent several nights in a row sleeping in the open, waking up drenched in dew; but only now was he thinking about how cold he was from a couch indoors.

Shaking his head at himself and smiling, Harry stood and walked to the kitchen table, bare feet making hardly any noise on the wooden floors.

Snape had begun making coffee in a pot on the stove. Harry watched him move through the kitchen, fighting a yawn. He sat at one of the chairs and let his forehead fall onto the table. His interrupted sleep hadn’t exactly left him refreshed. His body still ached from the days spent trekking across country, and his shoes were probably a loss. At least I’ll be in shape for Quidditch. Then a frown crossed his face, and he looked up at Snape.

“Will I be able to go to school in the fall?”

Snape paused, then got down two mugs from a cabinet, dusting them out with his sleeve. “Not unless the Headmaster is able to convince the Ministry to overturn their verdict.”

“I won’t be going to school,” Harry sighed, thumping his head a few times.

Snape nudged his arm with a cup, and Harry looked up and accepted it. Snape poured some of the coffee into it, and Harry took a grateful sip. The hot drink seemed to warm him from the inside out, and he relaxed back against his chair.

“Likely not,” Snape said.

That was the thing about Snape. He just told the truth, plain and without any extra fluff or platitudes. He might add a liberal dose of slights against his mental fortitude and other Special Snape™ insults, but he’d never lied to Harry. Not that he knew of, at least.

The man sat across from him after pushing open the curtain on the window above the sink. In the pale morning light, Harry could tell that Snape also looked exhausted. “Today, I will be contacting the Headmaster.”

Harry nodded. If he was going to be separated from his friends while they got to enjoy school, he wanted to at least talk with them before they went back to the castle.

A sharp stab of resentment cut through Harry, and he realized that he was clutching the cup with white knuckles. He took a mediation breath and forcibly loosened his grip. He wanted to rave about how it wasn’t fair, but knew exactly how well Snape would take that little fit. “How far will you go?”

“Far enough so that I will not be seen by any of the villagers.”

Harry nodded and took another drink. He glanced out the window as a young, frazzled woman stumbled past, plugging her ears.

Wincing at a particularly high note, Snape said, “While I am gone, you are to remain on the couch.” Harry frowned. Sure, he was tired, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be restricted to sitting all day! He’d go mad. Before he could argue, however, the professor continued. “Your cough yesterday was well placed. No one who visits while I am out will think twice to see you resting on the couch. In fact, Amy warned me several times not to let you develop pneumonia. I told her that you had gotten a lot of water in your lungs.”

“Do I have to fake-cough then?”

“Once or twice, if you think you can pull it off again. It’d be easiest to just pretend to be asleep. I’m sure that won’t be a problem for you,” Snape sneered.

Harry rolled his eyes. For Snape, that was positively weak. He wondered whether Snape’s insults were more habit by now than anything else.

“When are you leaving?”

“As soon as Amy returns. She told me she would check in on us.”

Snape, having finished his coffee rather quickly, refilled the cup and began making breakfast.

Harry watched him for a moment, then stared at the remaining liquid in the bottom of his cup. There were two weeks left of summer; two weeks for Dumbledore to get the Ministry off his back. The man was the most powerful wizard in Great Britain, but Harry had to wonder if even the Headmaster had that much influence.

Appetite suddenly gone, he only looked up at Snape when the man plunked a plate of eggs in front of him. “Eat,” the professor said. Harry picked up the fork and began eating mechanically.

Snape himself didn’t eat breakfast, and Harry found himself almost saying something about how he should at least have some toast, but fought the impulse. The man wouldn’t appreciate Harry’s interference, so he finished his meal in silence. When he finished, he took his plate to the sink to wash it. He became absorbed in his worries about school and didn’t notice Snape come up behind him until he turned and saw him within arm’s reach. He jumped in surprise, and the man looked at him curiously, but Harry turned away with a slight blush and busied himself by drying his hands on a towel. When he shifted back to Snape, he saw that the professor was holding out a book.

“This was in the bookshelf in the corner. It is Muggle, of course, but you will read it.”

“I will?” Harry said doubtfully, looking down at the book. The Art of War. It looked dusty and long. He wanted to argue “but it’s summer!”, but thought better of it.

“Yes,” Snape said. “Just because you are in hiding does not mean you can allow your education to suffer.”

Harry snorted. Voldemort was after him, and he might spend the rest of his life in hiding from the Ministry. Schoolwork wasn’t the first, second, or even tenth thing on his mind. “I’ll be able to make up for not going to Hogwarts by reading…” he peered at the cover, “Sun Tzu?”

“Just read the book, Potter,” Snape said exasperatedly. Harry finally took the tome from his teacher, facial expression clearly showing what he thought about Snape’s latest instruction.

Harry ignored the glare Snape gave him and went back to the couch, settling on one end. He wrapped himself in his blanket and propped up the book, preparing himself for a long haul.

Before he began reading, however, Snape set a piece of lined paper on the end table beside Harry, along with a Muggle fountain pen. “At the end of each chapter, write five pieces of advice that stood out to you.”

Becoming aware that his mouth was hanging open, Harry looked down at the book mutinously. “Yes, sir,” he managed to choke out. He had no right! Just because Snape had rescued him didn’t mean the man could—

Harry checked his internal rant, reminding himself that he’d probably get bored pretty quickly with nothing else to do anyways.

Shifting his focus back to the book, Harry skipped the preface and began with the first chapter.

Laying Plans

Sun Tzu said: The art of war is of vital importance to the state. It is a matter of life and death, a road either to safety or ruin. Hence it is a subject of inquiry which can on no account be neglected.

The art of war, then, is governed by five constant factors…

Harry almost resented how interested he was becoming. He hardly noticed when the bagpipes finally stopped, only aware of the sudden silence because Snape sighed in relief.

The first chapter was short, but left Harry reeling; when taken in the context of the upcoming war against Voldemort, he realized that there was far more going on that he had ever even considered. For the first time, he really understood how busy Dumbledore was. As he poised the pen over the paper Snape provided, he mulled over the new questions and half-formed ideas beginning to tumble through his brain.

What currently stood out most, perhaps because he was in hiding, were the points about deceit and misleading your enemy. 

All warfare is based on deception.

He thought about how Barty Crouch Jr. had polyjuiced as Mad-Eye. Obviously it had given him the opportunity to throw the Tournament and kidnap Harry, but there was more to consider. He’d been his teacher for an entire year. How much had he learned about the defense knowledge of the younger generation? About the various sixth and seventh years about to become adults and possible aurors? About Harry himself? Dumbledore had trusted him. How much did Crouch, and now Voldemort, know about the Light Side’s defenses? What did he now know about how ready they were for a war?

How much stronger was Voldemort now because of it?

Shaking his head and feeling ill, Harry jotted down, “Be prepared for anything from your enemy, especially what they seem least likely to do.”

He went back to thinking about the book. Much of the last part of the chapter involved doing what your enemy least expected. Attack where they are not ready, seem near when you are far and far when you are near, use bait to entice them into a trap. It was all about deception again, wasn’t it? Picking up his pen, he wrote, “Never let them know your next move. Make things appear to be what they are not.”

Looking down at his two (out of five) points, Harry grimaced and glanced at Snape. The man was sitting in an armchair facing the empty fireplace, reading another book. Unsure what else to write, Harry flipped through the first chapter again and his eye caught a point that made him smile. If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. Harry wasn’t sure of the exact definition of choleric, but he’d heard Aunt Petunia complain about Number Seven’s choleric baby and how it was always crying and in a bad mood.

Harry’s smile grew larger as he remembered the baby-like form Voldemort had taken during fourth year. Yeah, “choleric” seemed like a perfect word to describe Voldemort. The Dark Wizard cursed his own followers and enjoyed torturing a teenager. Harry wrote, “Take advantage of Voldemort’s unpredictable moods and chorelic-ness.” Then, using the part about pretending to be weak as a different point since he was struggling to think up of five, he added below it, “Train in secret. Don’t let V. know how much you know.” Hoping Snape wouldn’t say he was being cocky by thinking he could learn something useful against Voldemort, he added a side note next to that fourth point. “(Occlumency?)” After all, Harry had no illusions that he could learn offensive magic advanced enough to top Voldemort.

He was still trying to think of a fifth note when the door opened and Mrs. Duncan entered. Harry quickly stuffed the paper into the book to mark his page as she came over to check on him.

“Henry, how are you?”

Harry smiled weakly and pulled the blanket tighter around himself.

“Thank you for coming, Amy,” Snape said, setting aside his own book and standing up. Something about him seemed to shift as he played his role.

“It’s no trouble,” she said, setting the bowl of food she’d brought with her on the kitchen table.

“Now that I’ve rested up, I want to check the beach for any signs of our boat washing up.” Snape glanced at Harry with concern, adding, “I didn’t want to leave Henry alone, though, without letting someone know where I’d gone. He’s still not feeling well.”

Taking his cue, Harry coughed. Deceive the enemy. Mrs. Duncan wasn’t the enemy, though. She was just a nice lady who’d helped two strangers. Harry pushed away the residual guilt and stretched out to lay down on the couch again.

“Of course.” Mrs. Duncan peered closer at Snape. “Are you sure you’re well enough to go? My husband could accompany you. You look awfully thin and pale.”

Harry disguised his laugh with another cough, grateful that Snape was the concerned father right now and not the stern professor, because he might have been cleaning out the cupboards with a toothbrush otherwise.

“I will be alright. Thank you. Henry, I’ll be back soon.” Snape briefly laid a hand on Harry’s head before leaving. This time, Harry didn’t wince, but watched him leave with a strange emotion coursing through him.

Mrs. Duncan must have seen it on his face, because she sat on the recently vacated armchair and said kindly, “Don’t worry. He’ll be alright. Your father is a determined sort. I can tell.”

Harry blinked. Was he worried?

Not sure how to respond, he said, “Yeah.” He settled further into the couch, feeling confused.

The touch, brief and false as it was, had reminded Harry of the nightmare last night. Snape had woken him and sat beside him as if he understood that Harry wanted someone to be with him but didn’t know how to ask for it. Harry could barely reconcile that memory with countless others of a sneering, hateful professor that tormented him in school.

To escape the sudden jumble of emotion, Harry closed his eyes and allowed himself to sleep.