“Harry! Dudley! Breakfast!”

Harry stirred, blinking and stretching lazily. The morning sun streamed through his open window, glowing pale gold on the coverlet as he sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Harry!” It was Dudley, poking his head through the partially open doorway. “You better hurry up, or there won’t be any bacon left for you.”

“Come on, Dudders,” Harry said, throwing the cover off and stumbling forward. “Your mum always cooks enough for the both of us.”

Dudley scowled good-naturedly at the nickname and threw Harry’s dressing gown at him. “Wanna test it?”

“Not really,” Harry said, grinning.

The two of them followed their noses downstairs, where Aunt Petunia gave them a smile as she set a plate of bacon on the table. Harry made sure to grab the one Dudley was going for. His cousin then sat in the chair Harry pulled out for himself, making him find another one.

“Boys,” Aunt Petunia scolded indulgently, sitting down with a cuppa ensconced in her hands. “It might be summer, but that’s no excuse for horseplay.”

“Let them have their fun! It’s only a couple of months before they have to bury their noses in books again.”

“Dad!”

“Uncle Vernon!”

The beefy man, who had walked in with a newspaper under one arm, ruffled both boys’ hair. “Right, I’m off.”

“See you later, sweetheart,” Aunt Petunia gave him a peck on the cheek, at which Harry and Dudley exchanged disgusted looks. Uncle Vernon picked up his briefcase and left, stealing a piece of toast from the table as he passed.

“Harry,” Aunt Petunia said, setting down her cup and turning to him. “I saw your grades for the year. Very well done.”

Harry smiled, but did his best not to crow. He knew Dudley hadn’t done so well, and didn’t want to make his cousin feel bad. He’d helped tutor him throughout the year, and Dudley had passed all of his classes, but his grades had still not been as high as he knew his own were.

“Dudley,” Aunt Petunia then said, turning sad eyes on her son. “What happened?”

Dudley stared down at his plate. “I tried, Mum. I did.”

“I know you did,” Aunt Petunia said softly. “Dudders, your literature teacher wrote to me, suggesting some reading you could do over the summer that will help next year.” Her hands flew to her chest. “Eleventh years. I can’t believe my boys are so grown.”

“So, uh, what kind of reading?” Dudley asked, eager to head her off before she got sentimental.

“I thought we might go to the library and pick up some books. We can talk to the librarian about the list your teacher sent, see what she thinks would be a good starting place.”

“Alright. Harry, wanna come?”

“I’m okay,” Harry said, taking his plate to the sink. “You two go on.”

As soon as Dudley finished eating, the two of them left. Harry wandered over to the parlour, wondering what he should do.

There was a knock at the door, and Harry got up. He glanced through the peephole. Standing on the stoop was a strange man, in dark clothes and wearing a scowl. He cautiously opened the door. “Hello? Can I help you?”

“Potter!”

Harry frowned. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

The man’s head tilted slightly, and he stared at Harry incredulously. “Professor Snape, potions master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

Harry swallowed and tried to think of a polite way to end the conversation, wondering if this was some strange canvassing scheme. Witchcraft? What was he talking about? Was this some sort of antithesis to the Jehovah's Witness thing? “I don’t know what that is,” he said carefully, stepping back slightly and preparing to shut the door.

“Wait!” The man said, sticking his foot into the doorway. Harry went still, ready to dash for the landline and call the cops if he forced his way further inside.

But the man didn’t shove further in, only stood there and glared at him. “You always have to make things difficult, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you want,” Harry said, hating how his voice shook, “but please leave.”

“This is not real!” the man shouted.

Harry blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“You are dreaming!”

“You’re raving,” Harry breathed.

“You have been enchanted. The Dark Lord has put a spell on you, trapping you within your own mind.”

“Get back!” Harry kicked at his foot, loosening it, and shoved at the door. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t think I want to.”

“Potter!” the man yelled, but the door slammed shut. Harry locked the knob, and then the deadbolt for good measure. The man continued yelling through the door. “You need to wake up!”

Harry had a strong wish that he would go away, and the voice suddenly stopped. Unable to believe the strange man was gone, he glanced through the peephole. Sure enough, the front step was empty.

“Huh,” he said, shaking his head and walking away. “Creep.”

By the time he reached the sofa, he had completely forgotten their interaction.

Harry was strolling down the pavement when an odd man walked up to him.

“Potter.”

Harry startled. “You know who I am?”

The man scowled and took a deep breath. “My name is Severus Snape. I am a teacher at your school.” He started walking alongside him.

“Really? I’ve never seen you before.” Harry glanced around the neighbourhood. It was very nice out. A slight breeze wafted down the street, helping offset the heat of early July. He tucked his hands into his pockets and smiled slightly, appreciating the sun. He didn’t get a lot of sun at school. Which was weird, now that he thought about it. Smeltings was in the south east, and they frequently did exercises outdoors.

“At Hogwarts, you have classes with me,” Mr. Snape said.

Harry stumbled slightly over a lip in the pavement. “What? No way. I’d remember you.” He glanced at the man suspiciously.

Mr. Snape ran a hand over his face. “Do you not realise this is wrong?”

“What are you talking about?”

“This. All of it is wrong.” The man stopped walking, and Harry did too, turning to face him.

“No, it’s not,” Harry argued. He waved his hand across the neighbourhood. “This is Little Whinging. I live here with my aunt and uncle.”

“You are not really here!” The man finally snapped, leaning forward. “This is a dream, an enchantment. And I am your teacher, and you attend Hogwarts.”

Harry started to feel a headache coming on. He shook his head rapidly and stepped back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man glared, and then made a sudden lunge at him. Harry leapt back, turned, and ran.

Harry paused, leaning back on his heels and using the back of a gloved hand to wipe the sweat off of his forehead. He’d volunteered to do the gardening today, as Aunt Petunia and Dudley were gone on a day trip to London to see a nutritionist. He was about to lean forward and pluck another weed when a voice from several feet away surprised him.

“Are those carnations?”

Harry looked over to see a tall, thin man wearing dark clothes. Harry thought that he must be rather hot in the summer heat. “Yeah. They are.”

The man nodded, then asked after a slight hesitation, “Do you recognize me?”

Harry shook his head, flummoxed. “Should I?”

The man sighed. “Yes.”

“Oh,” was all Harry could think to say. “I’m sorry.”

The man stared at him for a moment. “I am a teacher at a school called Hogwarts. You are a student there.”

Harry blinked. “No, I attend Smeltings. You must have me confused with someone else.”

The man said, slightly more forcefully, “I am quite sure that I do not. You are Harry James Potter. You attend Hogwarts, and I am a professor. You have magic.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. The man stepped back slightly, as if to emphasise that he was not a threat. More puzzled now than anything else, Harry tilted his head. “That’s ridiculous. Magic isn’t real.”

The man’s face pinched, but he didn’t insist or start shouting. He sighed, then glanced over his shoulder. “I have to go.”

“Bye,” Harry said, already back to his weeding.

“For now,” the man said softly. When Harry looked up again half a minute later, he was gone.

“How was the appointment?” Harry asked when Aunt Petunia and Dudley stepped inside.

“Informative,” Aunt Petunia said. Dudley rubbed the back of his neck, looking rueful. She patted his shoulder, then looked to Harry. “Anything happen while we were out?”

Harry pursed his lips, feeling as though something had happened, but couldn’t think what it might be. He shrugged instead. “Not really.”

Uncle Vernon came home not long after, and they all sat down at the telly to watch a new program that Dudley had suggested. Harry personally didn’t find it all that interesting, thinking it a bit silly, but the rest of them seemed to like it, so he tolerated it for their sakes.

His dreams that night were odd and disjointed. For some odd reason, a bright green light was prominent, and it frightened him. He woke abruptly and sat up. The room was dimly lit by the early morning light creeping out from behind the curtains, and he could make out only shadows. Still, something about the room felt off. There was his desk and chair across the room, the new computer on top making a slight buzzing noise like it always did if he listened hard enough. His wardrobe was slightly open, clothes falling out as he’d been lax of late in keeping it organised. The bookshelf near his bed was there as always, and the room was painted his favourite colour (green.)

Figuring that he was just disoriented from the dreams, he got up and made his way to the door, throwing on his dressing gown as he went. The door was slightly ajar, which he found odd, but he thought of it only in passing as he padded downstairs.

In the kitchen, he took down a glass and filled it with water from the tap, smiling as he noticed that Aunt Petunia had forgotten to close the curtains to the window above the sink again. It faced north, but he could see the horizon lightening. No one else was up yet in the house, and he found the early morning stillness comforting. He loved his family, but they could make an awful lot of noise sometimes.

Deciding to watch the sunrise, he unlocked the front door and went out to sit on the stoop. He set the glass on the ground next to him and took a deep breath of the fresh air, exhaling with a huff as he slumped comfortably.

He’d only been outside for a short while when a figure walked past on the pavement. The early morning adventurer was a tall, thin man, who stopped when he saw Harry there.

“Good morning,” Harry said affably.

“What do you mean by wishing me a good morning?” the man asked archly.

Harry shrugged, then peered closer at him. “Do I know you?”

The man looked slightly surprised at this, although not, Harry thought, displeased. “Do you?”

“I think so.” Harry said. “I recognise you from somewhere, but I can’t think where.”

“Perhaps it was in passing,” the man suggested.

“Maybe,” Harry agreed.

The man tapped his foot and glanced at the rising sun. “Out for some air?”

“Just enjoying the start of the day,” Harry said, the details of his dreams slipping away as his mood improved.

Across the street, their batty neighbour let out her cats. Harry smiled at the sight of her in hair curlers and tartan slippers, then frowned. “Doesn’t she live on Wisteria Walk?”

“I would not know. I do not live in the area,” the man said, staring at the woman as well.

“Then what are you doing here?” Harry asked.

The man tore his attention away from their neighbour and pierced him with a calculating look. Finally, he said, “Doing some research.”

“Any luck?”

“That depends.” The man crossed his arms. “Do you know anything about magic?”

“Magic?” Harry laughed. “It’s not real, of course.”

The man merely inclined his head. “As you say.”

Harry picked up his water glass and got to his feet. “I’ll see you around, perhaps?”

“Oh, most certainly,” the man said. Harry gave him a nod and returned inside, still chuckling slightly. Magic. What an interesting start to the day.

Harry stood in front of the bookshelf in his room, looking it over for something to read. The odd thing was, none of the books on the shelves were familiar to him, although several of the titles looked well used. He’d opened one, a book he was certain he’d never even seen before, titled Physics at the Sixth-Form Level, finding highlights inside and annotations in his own handwriting.

His cousin opened the door and came inside. “Your door was shut.”

“Yeah,” Harry said distractedly, picking up another book and seeing that the inside was the same as the first. “‘Course it was.”

“Never was before,” his cousin said idly, looking bored by the very presence of books.

Harry slid Romans in Britain back onto the shelf and turned to his cousin. “What’s up?”

“I’m going to sneak out for ice cream.”

“Didn’t your nutritionist nix the sweets?”

“Yeah. I said ‘sneak,’ didn’t I?”

Harry smirked. “I guess you did.”

There was a short silence, until Dudley prompted, “Well? Don’t you want to come along?”

Harry blinked. “You’re inviting me to come along?”

Dudley frowned, a not-uncommon look of confusion on his face. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Harry thought for a moment, wondering at his own surprise. Why wouldn’t Dudley have invited him along? They’d grown up as practically brothers. He shrugged, glad that Dudley didn’t always need a sensible explanation to be satisfied. “Dunno. Sure, I’ll come.”

“Ace.”

Harry followed Dudley out, pausing slightly in the doorway as he glanced back at the room. His eyes fell on the bookshelf in thought, but he had the feeling that he had forgotten something fairly important as he tried to recall whatever he’d been doing in there in the first place.

The doorbell rang. Harry stopped his hunt for something from the fridge to answer it. He glanced through the peephole and saw the man from yesterday morning. He opened the door with a smile. “Hello.”

The man nodded a greeting. “Good afternoon.”

Harry glanced at his watch. “Yeah, I guess it is afternoon, huh?”

There was an awkward pause, so Harry stepped back slightly. “Would you like to come in?”

The man hesitated, then stepped inside. Harry led him to the kitchen, where he sat at the kitchen table while Harry leaned against the counter.

“Where is your family?”

“Uncle Vernon’s at work. Dudley’s hanging out with Piers. Aunt Petunia ran out to the shops a few minutes ago. We’re completely out of milk and eggs, and she wants to make a souffle.”

“I see.” He looked around the room curiously.

“So, Mr. Snape, how is your ‘research’ coming along?”

The man opened his mouth, then paused and looked at him closely. “I do not recall telling you my name, last we met.”

Harry clicked his tongue, thinking. No, neither did he. So where did he pick that up? Slightly discomfited, he turned to the cupboard next to the fridge and got down a glass. “I must have remembered it from when we first met. You said something about magic?”

“Yes. You have magic, although you do not know it.”

Harry snorted. “Right.” He took a sip of his drink. “So what does your research look like?”

“I am looking for odd happenings. Such things usually indicate the presence of magic.”

“Odd happenings?” Harry asked, highly amused by this unusual conversation. “What sort of odd happenings?”

“Oh, you know.” Snape gave him a look that seemed to trap Harry where he stood. “Neighbours, not where they should be. People acting strangely. Things just not feeling right.” There was a moment of absolute stillness, in which Harry didn’t even breathe. Looking a bit superior, the man asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Harry took another sip from the glass in his hand, ignoring the slight tremor in his fingers as he lifted it to his lips. “I can’t say that I do.”

“Oh, really?” The man leaned forward, gaze growing even more intent. “Where’d you get the milk?”

“Hm?”

“The glass of milk, in your hand. You just told me you were out. I never saw you pour any.”

Harry stared at him for a moment, sure that his heart had to start beating again. Sure enough, it did, and he set the glass down hard. A throbbing was starting in his temple, and he gritted his teeth in pain and the effort to stay polite. “I think you should leave.”

“This is not real,” the man said softly. “Your family. Their affection for you is not as familiar as is should be, is it?”

Harry shook his head. “It’s time for you to go.”

The man looked like he wanted to protest, but he stood and followed Harry to the door. He left easily enough, but not before turning to have the final word. “Keep looking. For oddities. You will find them.”

Harry watched him go in silence, trying hard to convince himself that the itch down his spine wasn’t from breaking out into a cold sweat.

There was a knock at the door. Irritated that the man would come back so soon, Harry opened the door with a retort on his tongue, only for it to die away when he saw his Aunt Petunia.

“You look surprised,” she commented, arms full of grocery bags.

“I thought you were someone else,” Harry admitted, following her to the kitchen.

“Who else would I be?” she asked with a laugh.

“I don’t know,” Harry lied. He reached for a bag of grapefruits in one of the shopping bags, thinking ruefully of the pound of bacon once available every morning for breakfast.

“Thank you,” she said, opening the fridge to put the milk in.

Harry froze, staring at her back. Had she just thanked him for helping out?

Keep looking. For oddities. You will find them.

She closed the fridge and turned, smiling at him, and he shook off his shock. He forced himself to smile back, still a little thrown-off. “Yeah, of course.”

You will find them.

Whenever Harry found the man, he never seemed to be doing anything. Really, it seemed more like the man always found him. This time, Mr. Snape (why did that sound wrong? Mr. Snape. Some part of it was off, even though the man himself had confirmed that it was his name,) was strolling past when Harry dragged the trash down the end of the curb.

“Hello,” Harry said.

The man nodded. “Perhaps we could talk?”

Harry hesitated, glancing at the house. “Fine. But none of that magic stuff.”

Mr. Snape agreed readily enough. They sat on the front porch. Aunt Petunia and Dudley were home, but they were in the observatory, arguing about the new diet plan.

“Enjoying your summer?” the man asked.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “It’s ace to get away from class for a while.”

Mr. Snape snorted. “In my experience, that is a universal attitude.”

“Your experience?”

“I am a teacher.”

“Let me guess: at magic school?” Harry asked. When the man opened his mouth, Harry cut in. “Nevermind. No magic.”

The man’s lips twisted, but he didn’t argue. “As I was saying, every student is glad when summer comes.” He tilted his head. “Except, perhaps, one student of mine.”

“Oh, really? Who?”

“Hermione Granger.” The man caught his eye. “Perhaps you know her?”

Harry thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

Mr. Snape stared at him for another moment, then looked away again. “On the other hand, Ron Weasley is a perfect example of a student who simply cannot wait for school to let out.”

Harry smirked. “Sounds like we’d be good friends.”

Mr. Snape swallowed, but didn’t look over. When he spoke, his low voice had a strained quality to it. “Maybe.”

Harry crossed his ankles, leaning back on his hands and looking around the neighbourhood. A little wind blew by, rusting the leaves of the small, closely manicured trees allowed to grow up in the suburb. He had a vague memory of a forest, wild and dangerous. Forbidden, even. He seemed to recall seeing it around school, but Smeltings wasn’t near any woods. He mentally shrugged and glanced back at Mr. Snape. “What do you teach?”

He said drolly, “Potions.”

Harry sighed, supposing he had walked into that one. “Where’s the school?”

“Far north of here. It is in Scotland, actually. Because of its location, Hogwarts is a boarding school.”

“Odd name, Hogwarts.”

Keep looking. For oddities.

“It is an odd school. The students are placed in different houses: Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Indeed. In fact, I am considered a professor there.”

“Professor Snape,” Harry said, trying out the sound. As soon as he said it, a spike of pain lanced his temple, and he clutched his head. It just seemed so… familiar.

You will find them.

“Harry!”

It was Aunt Petunia, calling from inside the house. Harry glanced back, one hand still bracing his head, but she wasn’t at the door and hadn’t seen their visitor. Professor Snape (that title certainly felt more fitting than “Mr. Snape” to him) stood. “Another time, then.”

“Sure,” Harry said, although he was not at all sure. In fact, he thought that if he never saw this strange man again, it wouldn’t be such a terrible thing at all.

Dinner was turkey and gravy over rice, with more gravy than turkey and a very small plat of rice. Uncle Vernon was forced to miss it, having agreed to meet a client from work for dinner. Not really hungry, Harry went to lay down instead in hopes that it would improve his headache. Aunt Petunia checked his forehead with the back of her hand, which made Harry inexplicably uncomfortable, then sent him off with a pat on the back. He mounted the stairs slowly, wishing he could forget the man’s words.

He collapsed on his bed, sighing as the soft mattress sunk slightly under his weight. He glanced idly around, wondering why the walls were green. Wasn’t his favourite colour red?

No matter. He closed his eyes and sighed again as some of the pressure eased.

He didn’t realise he’d fallen asleep until he jerked awake. Uncle Vernon’s footsteps came from downstairs, causing a spike of adrenaline to go through him. He lay there, barely breathing, closely listening to the sounds of his uncle’s footsteps as he shut the door and greeted Aunt Petunia.

“Where’s our Harry?”

“He’s feeling a bit off, the poor dear.”

And just like that, all of the tension drained out of him. Shaking his head at himself, Harry got up and went downstairs to greet his uncle.

“Ah, you’re up! How do you feel?”

“Better,” Harry said, only partially lying. “Although a tad chilled. How’d your dinner go?”

Uncle Vernon’s face grew smug. “Extremely well. Petunia, my dear, I think there’s a promotion in line for me.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” she exclaimed.

Dudley made a face at them. “C’mon, that new program is starting!”

All four of them made their way to the telly, which Dudley turned on to the new show about some sorcerer in the modern age. It was a kind of urban-fantasy show, which the others seemed to like well enough, but Harry couldn’t help but remember how silly he’d thought it earlier.

The sorcerer raised his hand, looking up to the sky. He shouted, “Lightning, strike forth!” before directing his pointer finger at the man before him like the accusing power of some ancient monarch, declaring death upon his enemies. A blue-ish bolt of light struck the man in the chest, completely vaporising him.

“That’s not how it works,” Harry said in contempt.

“How what works, darling?” Aunt Petunia asked as the others turned to him curiously.

“Magic,” Harry scoffed.

“It’s just a show,” Dudley said, brow furrowed. “Magic’s not real.”

Harry was about to respond, but realised that he didn’t know what to say. No, it wasn’t real. So why did he get the sense that this show was doing it so wrong? “Of course not.”

He didn’t say anything when the man tossed a handful of herbs on the ground in front of his feet to teleport away, even though it made him cringe in distaste. He left the room soon after, pleading the (very real) return of his headache as his excuse to go back to bed. They watched him leave with worried expressions on their faces.

When Harry went downstairs the next morning, he stopped dead in his tracks in surprise. Professor Snape was sitting in the parlour with Uncle Vernon, although he didn’t appear to be upholding his end of the conversation. Upon seeing Snape, Harry felt an oddly familiar sense of antipathy. As soon as he caught sight of Harry, the man in question stood.

“Harry!” Uncle Vernon said happily. “This man says he’s from your school. Wanted to talk to you about how excellent your grades were last term.”

The professor grimaced slightly, and Harry felt a rush of vindictiveness. Ignoring him, Harry looked to his uncle. “Where are Aunt Petunia and Dudley?”

“Your aunt was called in for jury duty, and Dudley went to a friend’s house.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “Personally, I think he’s trying to escape your aunt’s diet.”

Harry smiled briefly, but was too incensed at being left alone with Professor Snape to find any real amusement in his cousin’s antics.

“Well, I’m off to work.” Uncle Vernon clapped Harry on the shoulder on his way out, and Harry flinched.

Everybody in the room froze. Uncle Vernon stepped back once, then again, looking rather hurt. Harry desperately searched for something to say, but nothing seemed to fit.

“Right,” his uncle said, cheerful mood completely punctured. “I’ll just, ah, be going now.” He left in a hurry.

Professor Snape, meanwhile, had resumed his earlier manner as though nothing had happened.

“Why are you really here?” Harry asked, as soon as the door shut behind his uncle.

“It certainly is not about your grades,” the man said, smirking slightly.

“If you’re here to tell me I’m a wizard again, you can leave,” Harry said, growing tired of this game.

Snape, catching on to the face that Harry was much less friendly and open than during their last couple of interactions, grew serious. “You are upset.”

“Great observational skills!” Harry snapped.

“It is because you know I am right.”

Harry shook his head over and over. “No.” He was feeling decidedly less charitable towards the man than he could ever remember being.

“You have noticed things, things that are not as they ought to be. That interaction with your uncle is a prime example. This is not your reality.”

“You’re wrong about me. I don’t have magic. All that stuff you’re saying, about me and my family, it’s all a lie. I’m just a normal muggle.”

“Where did you learn the word ‘muggle’ then?”

“You said it!” Hadn’t he?

“No, Potter. I did not.”

Harry decided that wondering how the man knew his name was less important than getting away from him. “Stop!” He tried to shove past him into the kitchen, but the professor might as well have been a wall made of stone for all he budged.

“Your brain refuses to acknowledge what your heart knows to be true. It is causing the headaches.”

“Leave me alone!” Harry turned, throwing one very impolite finger at the man over his shoulder as he ran up the stairs. He burst into his room, slamming the door closed behind him and being peculiarly grateful to see a lock on this side of the knob. He turned it and put his back to the door, scanning his room as he panted from both exertion and emotion.

His eyes locked on the desk, identifying something wrong immediately.

Where was Hedwig’s cage?

“Where are my things?” Harry asked.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon exchanged confused looks. “What things?”

“My school trunk.”

“It’s under the stairs, with Dudley’s, until school starts. You know that.”

Harry marched to the cupboard under the stairs, a surge of loathing coursing through his body as he looked at it. He automatically reached for the chain to unlock it, before realising that there wasn’t one there. Only momentarily deterred by his confusion, he threw the door open.

It revealed, amidst cleaning supplies and other miscellaneous items, two Smeltings trunks shoved inside. There was his trunk, right on top of Dudley’s, Harry J Potter inscribed on the lid in fancy gold lettering, placed beneath the Smeltings crest. It was his trunk.

“This isn’t mine,” he said aloud, knowing it was true even as the words caught him off guard.

Keep looking. For oddities. You will find them.

“Of course they are, sweetie,” Aunt Petunia said, sounding very concerned now.

Harry left the door open, marching into the middle of the parlour and glaring at all three of the Dursleys. He shivered, wrapping his arms around himself. He’d been feeling cold and sore all day, which didn’t make sense in the summer heat. They were all wearing loose, short clothing, while Harry had on jeans and a jumper. It seemed to further illustrate the difference between them.

“I see you are beginning to realise.”

Harry whirled around, jabbing a finger at Professor Snape, who had appeared behind him. “Shut up! I told you, leave me alone!”

“I cannot do that.”

“Who are you?” Uncle Vernon blustered, striding forward and placing himself between Harry and the man. “Why are you bothering my nephew?”

Harry scowled, irritation momentarily trumping fear, and pushed his uncle aside. “Why are you getting involved?”

Uncle Vernon frowned, moustache poofing outwards sadly as he regarded Harry with bemusement. “We’re just trying to help you, Harry.”

“No, you’re not, and you never have,” Harry said angrily.

There was a collective gasp from his family, who all drew together as if searching for mutual comfort in the face of his cruel words. Harry winced, knowing that wasn’t quite true. Hadn’t Dudley invited him to ice cream? Aunt Petunia cooked him bacon on the sly when his cousin was on a diet? Uncle Vernon congratulated him on good end-of-year grades?

“That’s right,” Professor Snape said. Harry snarled wordlessly at him, but the man’s face wasn’t triumphant at his confusion, only stoic. “Your real family never helped you.”

“They are my family,” Harry said, not sounding much more confident than he felt.

“No,” came the simple reply. “They are not.”

Harry’s limbs felt like lead. He backed up, trying to get away from both Snape and the Dursleys, and his back hit a wall. He slid down it, legs splayed out in front of him, the muscles feeling as though they were nothing but jell-o. His hands trembled, and he closed his eyes. His breathing became more rapid, and the cold seemed closer than ever despite his winter clothing. He felt a presence next to him and opened his eyes, only for tears to escape and trail down his face.

“Stop,” he whispered.

Professor Snape only looked at him, offering no words of reassurance. Harry turned his head away weakly, unable to look at him, but that only brought the Dursleys into view. They were huddled together, looking at him with worry. Worry for him.

“Why can’t I stay here?” He whispered, not taking his eyes off of what should have been his family.

“It was not real. It was never real.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut again, the movement forcing fresh tears down his cheeks, knowing Snape was right and hating it. A long, thin-fingered hand grasped his own, and he shivered more violently the cold became almost unbearable.

The fingers between his own gave Harry’s hand a light squeeze, and he opened his eyes to see Professor Snape kneeling next to him on the hard stone floor of Harry’s small prison cell. His Triwizard Tournament clothes were merely rags by now, and he spasmed weakly as the chilled but stale air seemed to pass right through his skin and take hold of his bones.

“We must go,” Snape said quietly.

His muscles were weak with disuse, but the professor helped him up as he stood on trembling legs. They made their agonisingly slow way towards the door, Snape holding his wand out in front of them with his free hand.

“What happened?” Harry muttered, voice thick.

“Not now,” Snape whispered. Harry was too weak to protest, so he allowed himself to be led out of the room. Outside was a long, bare hallway that seemed to stretch out endlessly on both sides. As soon as they passed through the doorway, Snape turned to Harry. “Hold on.”

Some distance down the hall, a voice shouted an alarm, but Snape had already wrapped his arms around Harry and apparated away by the time the first curse whizzed past.

They appeared in a horrible, dusty kitchen with some rather gruesome decorations. Someone screamed, but Harry wasn’t bothered enough to see who it was as he tumbled to the floor, dry heaving as his empty stomach protested the sudden apparition.

“Oh my, Harry,” a female voice said, and he felt himself wrapped in another set of arms. These were soft, and kind, and much better at giving comfort than Snape’s stiff pseudo-embrace had been, and he allowed himself to melt into the embrace. He thought he heard crying from somewhere, but his face was buried in the woman’s shoulder, and his nose caught the achingly beloved scent of the Burrow.

“Molly, don’t suffocate him,” said another voice. It was the sadly smiling tone of Remus Lupin, Harry realised. He pulled back reluctantly, but Remus wasn’t the first person his eyes sought.

Harry met Snape’s steady gaze. “What happened?” he repeated.

“Harry,” Mrs. Weasley began softly, her voice sounding dangerously close to breaking, “you’ve just been through a lot. Perhaps, after a rest—”

“I’ve had enough dreaming for a lifetime,” he said more firmly, dredging up some hidden reserve of strength to pull himself to his feet. He kept his eyes on Snape. “Tell me, please.”

The man did not hesitate. His tone was not apologetic, but almost clinical, which Harry appreciated.

“You were captured by the Dark Lord after the ritual in the graveyard. He almost killed you, but discovered a strong enchantment placed upon you by the Headmaster, alerting him in case of death or any attempted removal of the spell. As he did not want his worst enemy forewarned of his return, he chose to imprison you instead, in the hopes that the search for you would draw any attention away from his activities. To achieve this, he placed you under a powerful state of magical delusion. Simply put, your mind created a dream world from which you would never wish to wake. The room was spelled to only allow your removal if you walked out on your own two feet, a feat you could never have achieved while in the dream. Only he could remove it magically, as he had been the one to place it.”

“If it was my ideal world, how come you kept showing up?”

A muffled snort came from somewhere behind him, and Snape gave him a glare, although Harry couldn’t detect any true venom in it. “I was forced to enter your mind, and thus the dream, in an effort to make you aware of the deception, and thus wake you from it.”

“That’s why you kept reminding me to look for oddities and pay attention to the things that didn’t make sense,” Harry said slowly.

“It required subtly and, in my opinion, far too many attempts to finally reach you. If I ever became too direct and threatened the delusion too strongly, your mind would throw me out and erase any memory of the interaction at all.”

Harry looked around for somewhere to sit, ignoring the pitying looks Mrs. Weasley and Remus were giving him. He finally pulled out one of the chairs around the kitchen table and sat, hating how weak you felt. “How long?”

“Pardon?” Mrs. Weasley asked.

“How long,” Harry said, “was I trapped in the dream?”

There was a heavy silence that told Harry what he really needed to know: it had been a while.

“Six and a half weeks,” Remus finally said.

Six weeks? He’d missed over six weeks? Harry tried not to let his dismay show on his face, but it was hard not to. That meant there was only a week and a half until school started. That meant—

“I’m already fifteen?”

“You have birthday gifts waiting for you,” Remus said.

Harry felt hollow. He didn’t care about birthday gifts! He’d lost over six weeks of his life to… to…

“It wasn’t real,” Harry mumbled, folding his arms on the table and lowering his forehead to rest on them. “It was never real.”

A hand fell on his back, and he expected Remus or perhaps Mrs. Weasley to say something, but Snape’s voice broke into his spiralling thoughts. “I believe, Mr. Potter, that the Headmaster has a saying for occasions such as these.”

“It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live,” they said in unison, and Harry lifted his head with a great effort.

“I know. And thank you. For getting me out of there.”

Snape’s eyes darted to the side, as if searching for escape from the thanks, but he replied calmly enough. “You are welcome.”

Harry nodded and allowed Mrs. Weasley to pull him to his feet. “Whatever you might think, young man, you need rest after that ordeal.” She looked him over. “But not, I think, before a hot meal.”

Harry nodded eagerly. “Yes, please.”

Snape snorted. “Teenagers.” The then turned to go, but not before sliding a potion vial onto the table from within a pocket.

Harry narrowed his eyes at it, taking a moment to read the spidery handwriting on the label. Dreamless sleep.

He snorted and looked up, but the man was already gone.

“Alright, Harry?” Remus asked, catching his faraway look.

“Yeah,” Harry said, smiling slightly at his former professor. “At least, I will be.”